Only, in his vague way, the dread was his wife, the
destroyer, and it was the pain, the destruction, a darkness which was
one and both.
He very rarely saw his wife. She kept her room. Only occasionally she
came forth, with her head stretched forward, and in her low, possessed
voice, she asked him how he was. And he answered her, in the habit of
more than thirty years: 'Well, I don't think I'm any the worse, dear.'
But he was frightened of her, underneath this safeguard of habit,
frightened almost to the verge of death.
But all his life, he had been so constant to his lights, he had never
broken down. He would die even now without breaking down, without
knowing what his feelings were, towards her. All his life, he had said:
'Poor Christiana, she has such a strong temper.' With unbroken will, he
had stood by this position with regard to her, he had substituted pity
for all his hostility, pity had been his shield and his safeguard, and
his infallible weapon. And still, in his consciousness, he was sorry
for her, her nature was so violent and so impatient.
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