He was scarcely conscious that he stood and looked at her for quite two
minutes, without motion or speech on the part of either; but the dumb,
desolate look in her eyes--a look of appeal, astonishment, horror and
shame combined, presently clarified his senses, and he slowly grew to
look at her as at his punishment, the punishment of his life. Before
--always before--Sophie had been vague and indistinct: seen to-day,
forgotten tomorrow; and previous to meeting her scores had affected his
senses, affected them not at all deeply.
She was like a date in history to a boy who remembers that it meant
something, but what, is not quite sure. But the meaning and definiteness
were his own. Out of the irresponsibility of his nature, out of the
moral ineptitude to which he had been born, moral knowledge came to him
at last. Love had not done it; neither the love of Christine, as strong
as death, nor the love of his sister, the deepest thing he ever knew--but
the look of a woman wronged. He had inflicted on her the deepest wrong
that may be done a woman. A woman can forgive passion and ruin, and
worse, if the man loves her, and she can forgive herself, remembering
that to her who loved much, much was forgiven.
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