She had forgiven him, but was it her fault if he had
destroyed that which he now most desired? Was it her fault that
forgiveness did not mean love? Her suffering was not the selfish
pain of wounded vanity, for Giovanni's despair would have healed
such a wound by showing her the strength of his passion. There was
no resentment in her heart, either, for she longed to love him.
But even the habit of loving was gone, broken away and forgotten
in the sharp agony of an hour. She had done her best to bring it
back, she had tried to repeat phrases that had once come from her
heart with the conviction of great joy, each time they had been
spoken. But the words were dead and meant nothing, or if they had
a meaning they told her of the change in herself. She was willing
to argue against it, to say again and again that she had no right
to be so changed, that there had been enough to make any man
suspicious, that she would have despised him had he overlooked
such convincing evidence. Could a man love truly and not have some
jealousy in his nature? Could a man have such overwhelming proof
given him of guilt in the woman he adored and yet show nothing,
any more than if she had been a stranger? But the argument was not
satisfactory, nor conclusive.
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