There was that in her life which made her afraid of the world, which
would, had it guessed the truth, have pryed with curious eyes into her
sorrow, and found an interest in seeing her suffer. The trouble was her
husband. She rarely spoke of him herself, and I think I ought to follow
her example, and say as little about him as possible. He was jealous of
her, jealous of her popularity, and jealous of every one who approached
her. He carried it so far that she scarcely dared to show a preference,
and was even obliged to be cold and reserved with some of her best
friends. I was a privileged person, allowed to be intimate with her
from the first, partly because I insisted on it when I saw how matters
stood, and partly because my position and reputation gave me a right to
insist. I never had occasion to brave insults for her sake, but, like
many others, I would have done so had it been necessary. Her friends
were constantly being driven from her on one pretext or another. People
would have taken her part readily enough had she complained, but
complaint was contrary to her nature and her principles.
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