The only life-principle she had, so far as I know, was to
get from the moment the greatest possible enjoyment that would
leave the way clear for more to follow. She had not been in his
house a week before Mr. Redmain hated her. He was something given
to hating people who came near him, and she came much too near.
She was by no means so different in character as to be repulsive
to him; neither was she so much alike as to be tiresome; their
designs could not well clash, for she was a woman and he was a
man; if she had not been his wife's friend, they might, perhaps,
have got on together better than well; but the two were such as
must either be hand in glove or hate each other. There had not,
however, been the least approach to rupture between them. Mr.
Redmain, indeed, took no trouble to avoid such a catastrophe, but
Sepia was far too wise to allow even the dawn of such a risk.
When he was ill, he was, if possible, more rude to her than to
every one else, but she did not seem to mind it a straw. Perhaps
she knew something of the ways of such _gentlemen_ as lose
their manners the moment they are ailing, and seem to consider a
headache or an attack of indigestion excuse sufficient for
behaving like the cad they scorn. It was not long, however,
before he began to take in her a very real interest, though not
of a sort it would have made her comfortable with him to know.
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