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Wharton, Edith, 1862-1937

"The Greater Inclination"


"Two days later Meriton came back. I began to tell him the story, but he
interrupted me.
"'There was no one with him at the time, then? You'd left him alone?'
"'No, he wasn't alone.'
"'Who was with him? You said the sister was out.'
"'I was with him.'
"'_You were with him?_'
"I shall never forget Meriton's look. I believe I had meant to explain, to
accuse myself, to shout out my agony of soul; but I saw the uselessness of
it. A door had been shut between us. Neither of us spoke another word. He
was very kind to me on the way home; he looked after me in a motherly way
that was a good deal harder to stand than his open contempt. I saw the man
was honestly trying to pity me; but it was no good--he simply couldn't."
Mr. Carstyle rose slowly, with a certain stiffness.
"Shall we turn toward home? Perhaps I'm keeping you."
They walked on a few steps in silence; then he spoke again.
"That business altered my whole life. Of course I oughtn't to have allowed
it to--that was another form of cowardice. But I saw myself only with
Meriton's eyes--it is one of the worst miseries of youth that one is
always trying to be somebody else. I had meant to be a Meriton--I saw I'd
better go home and study law....
"It's a childish fancy, a survival of the primitive savage, if you like;
but from that hour to this I've hankered day and night for a chance to
retrieve myself, to set myself right with the man I meant to be.


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