She only felt
Hermione's cool evidence, which seemed to put her down as nothing.
Hermione, who brooded and brooded till she was exhausted with the ache
of her effort at consciousness, spent and ashen in her body, who gained
so slowly and with such effort her final and barren conclusions of
knowledge, was apt, in the presence of other women, whom she thought
simply female, to wear the conclusions of her bitter assurance like
jewels which conferred on her an unquestionable distinction,
established her in a higher order of life. She was apt, mentally, to
condescend to women such as Ursula, whom she regarded as purely
emotional. Poor Hermione, it was her one possession, this aching
certainty of hers, it was her only justification. She must be confident
here, for God knows, she felt rejected and deficient enough elsewhere.
In the life of thought, of the spirit, she was one of the elect. And
she wanted to be universal. But there was a devastating cynicism at the
bottom of her. She did not believe in her own universals--they were
sham.
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