If he had been one most dear to us both and had died untimely, we could not avoid with more sacred care any allusion to him.

And, even if, by doing infinite violence to myself, I could bring myself to overcome the painful steepness of the hill of difficulty that lies between me and the subject, and tell the tardy truth, to what use, pray?
Having once owned that I had lied, could I resent any statement of mine being taken with distrust?
Would he believe me?
Not he! He would say, "If you were as innocent as you say, why did you _lie_?
If you were innocent, what had you to fear ?" So I hold my peace.

And, as the days go, and the winter wanes, it seems to me that I can plainly see, with no uncertain or doubtful eyes, Roger's love wane too.
After all, why should I wonder?
I may be sorry, for who ever saw gladly love--the one all-good thing on this earth, most of whose good things are adulterated and dirt-smirched--who ever saw it _gladly_ slip away from them?
But I cannot be surprised.
With Roger, love and trust must ever go hand-in-hand; and, when the one has gone, the other must needs soon follow.
After all, what he loved in me was a delusion--had never existed.

It was my blunt honesty, my transparent candor, the open-hearted downrightness that in me amounted to a misfortune, that had at first attracted him.
And now that he has found that the unpolished abruptness of my manners can conceal as great an amount of deception as the most insinuating silkiness of any one else's, I do not see what there is left in me to attract him.

Certainly I have no beauty to excite a man's passions, nor any genius to enchain his intellect, nor even any pretty accomplishment to amuse his leisure.
Why _should_ he love me?
Because I am his wife?
Nay, nay! who ever loved because it was their duty?
who ever succeeded in putting love in harness, and _driving_ him?
Sooner than be the object of such up-hill conscientious affection, I had far rather be treated with cold indifference--active hatred even.