I made him admire me most at the very moment
he had lost me forever,--and so far, all was well.
I went to my room that night a different creature. That place had been
a kind of sanctuary to me. By its vine-draped window I had loved to sit
and think of him, to read the books he liked, and fashion my mind to
what he could approve. But the spot which I had left, a hopeful and
loving girl, I returned to, a forsaken and revengeful woman. My whole
nature was wrought up to one purpose,--to repay him, to the last iota,
all he had made me suffer, all the humiliation, the despair. It was
strange how this purpose upbore and consoled me; for I needed
consolation. I hated him, yet I loved him fiercely, too; I despised
him, yet I knew no other man would ever touch my heart. He had been, he
always must be, everything to me,--the one object to which all my
thoughts tended, to which my every action was referred.
I took from a drawer his letters and his few love-gifts. The paper I
tore to fragments and threw into the empty fireplace. I lighted the
heap, and tossed the gifts, one after another, into the flame. Last of
all, I drew his portrait from my bosom. I gazed at it an instant,
pressed it to my lips.
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