Presumably she had never loved; her husband was out of the question.

Would she pass her life without that experience?
One thing could be affirmed with certainty; if she lost her heart to a man, it would not be to a Puritan.

He could conceive her being attracted by a strong and somewhat rude fellow, a despiser of conventionalities, without religion, a man of brains and blood; one whose look could overwhelm her with tumultuous scorn, and whose hand, if need be, could crush her life out at a blow.

Why not, however, a highly polished gentleman, critical, keen of speech, deeply read, brilliant in conversation, at once man of the world and scholar?
Might not that type have power over her?
In a degree, but not so decidedly as the intellectual brute.
Pshaw! what brain-sickness was this! What was he fallen to! Yet it did what nothing else would, amused him for a few minutes in his pain.

He recurred to it several times, and always successfully.
Sunday came.