It came in a
letter from Grizel, so direct as to be almost as direct as this: "I
think it is a horrid book. The more beautifully it is written the more
horrid it seems. No one was ever loved more truly than you. You can
know nothing about unrequited love. Then why do you pretend to know? I
see why you always avoided telling me anything about the book, even
its title. It was because you knew what I should say. It is nothing
but sentiment. You were on your wings all the time you were writing
it. That is why you could treat me as you did. Even to the last moment
you deceived me. I suppose you deceived yourself also. Had I known
what was in the manuscript I would not have kissed it, I would have
asked you to burn it. Had you not had the strength, and you would not,
I should have burned it for you. It would have been a proof of my
love. I have ceased to care whether you are a famous man or not. I
want you to be a real man. But you will not let me help you. I have
cried all day. GRIZEL."
Fury. Dejection. The heroic. They came in that order.
"This is too much!" he cried at first, "I can stand a good deal,
Grizel, but there was once a worm that turned at last, you know. Take
care, madam, take care.
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