I wrote again, begging him to let me see him on the matter.

For the first time in my life he refused to see me: he wrote to me to say that nothing I could urge would move him, and it would therefore only be painful to both of us to find ourselves in conflict.
Nothing ever surprised me more than this attitude of Meredith's.

I knew his poetry pretty well, and knew how severe he was on every sensual weakness perhaps because it was his own pitfall.

I knew too what a fighter he was at heart and how he loved the virile virtues; but I thought I knew the man, knew his tender kindliness of heart, the founts of pity in him, and I felt certain I could count on him for any office of human charity or generosity.

But no, he was impenetrable, hard.