'
She did not worship him, she made no pretence of it. Her cold, pale
beauty had not so much power over him as formerly, but it still
chagrined him keenly as often as he was reminded that he had no high
place in his wife's judgment. He knew well enough that it was
impossible. for her to: admire him; he was conscious of the thousand
degrading things he had said and done, every one of them stored. in
her memory. Perhaps not once since that terrible day in the
Pentonville lodgings had he looked her straight in the eyes. Yes,
her beauty appealed to him less than even a year ago; Adela knew it,
and it was the one solace in her living death. Perhaps occasion
could again have stung him into jealousy, but Adela was no longer a
vital interest in his existence. He lived in external things, his
natural life. Passion had been an irregularity in his development.
Yet he would gladly have had his wife's sympathy. He neither loved
nor hated her, but she was for ever above him, and, however
unconsciously, he longed. for her regard. Irreproachable, reticent,
it might be dying, Adela would no longer affect interests she did
not feel. To these present words of his she replied only with a
grave, not unkind, look; a look he could not under stand, yet which
humbled rather than irritated him.
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