She loved the horses and cows in the field. Each was
single and to itself, magical. It was not referred away to some
detestable social principle. It was incapable of soulfulness and
tragedy, which she detested so profoundly.
She could be very pleasant and flattering, almost subservient, to
people she met. But no one was taken in. Instinctively each felt her
contemptuous mockery of the human being in himself, or herself. She had
a profound grudge against the human being. That which the word 'human'
stood for was despicable and repugnant to her.
Mostly her heart was closed in this hidden, unconscious strain of
contemptuous ridicule. She thought she loved, she thought she was full
of love. This was her idea of herself. But the strange brightness of
her presence, a marvellous radiance of intrinsic vitality, was a
luminousness of supreme repudiation, nothing but repudiation.
Yet, at moments, she yielded and softened, she wanted pure love, only
pure love. This other, this state of constant unfailing repudiation,
was a strain, a suffering also.
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