Courage had never formed part of his feminine ideal; it was the glory of the brute and the man, and she should have left it to men and to brutes like him.

And yet if that detestable "accident," as she called it, had happened to him, she would have loved him all the better for it.
Odd.

But some women are made so.

Marion Hathaway was that sort--she stuck like a leech.
And now--the frivolous, feather-headed little wife, whom he had held so cheap and wronged so lightly, urging her folly as almost a justification of the wrong, she too--She appalled him with the terrific eternity of her love.

Was it possible that this feeling, which he had despised as the blind craving and clinging of the feminine animal, could take a place among the supreme realities, the things more living than flesh and blood, which in his way he still contrived to believe in?
The idea made him extremely uncomfortable, and he put it from him.