Passing herself slowly back and forth before her eyes, she saw that she
had lived her life almost wholly alone; that no woman had ever cherished
her as a friend, and that on no man's breast had she ever laid her head
in trust and love. She had been loved, but it had never brought her
satisfaction. From Justine there was devotion; but it had, as she
thought, been purchased, paid for, like the labour of a ploughboy. And if
she saw now in Justine's eyes a look of friendship, a note of personal
allegiance, she knew it was because she herself had grown more human.
Her nature had been stirred. Her natural heart was struggling against her
old bitterness towards Galt Roscoe and her partial hate of Ruth Devlin.
Once Roscoe had loved her, and she had not loved him. Then, on a bitter
day for him, he did a mad thing. The thing became--though neither of them
knew it at the time, and he not yet--a great injury to her, and this had
called for the sharp retaliation which she had the power to use. But all
had not happened as she expected; for something called Love had been
conceived in her very slowly, and was now being born, and sent, trembling
for its timid life, into the world.
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