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 "What is it you expect, Olivia . . . to live always in a sort of romantic glow? We're happier than most."

"No," she said slowly. "I don't think happiness has ever meant much to you, Anson. Perhaps you're above such things as happiness and unhappiness. Perhaps you're more fortunate than most of us. I doubt if you have ever known happiness or unhappiness, for that matter. You've been uncomfortable when people annoyed you and got in your way, but . . . that's all. Nothing more than that. Happiness . . . I mean it in the sensible way . . . has sometimes to do with delight in living, and I don't think you've ever known that, even for a moment."

He turned toward her saying, "I've been an honest, God-fearing, conscientious man, and I think you're talking nonsense!"

"No, not for a moment. . . . Heaven knows I ought to know the truth of what I've been saying."

Again they reached an impasse in the conversation and again they both remained silent, disturbed perhaps and uneasy in the consciousness that between them they had destroyed something which could never be restored; and yet with Olivia there was a cold, sustained sense of balance which came to her miraculously at such times. She felt, too, that she stood with her back against a wall, fighting. At last she said, "I would even let you divorce me—if that would be easier for you. I don't mind putting myself in the wrong."

Again he began to tremble. "Are you trying to tell me that. . . ."

"I'm not telling you anything. There hasn't been anything at all . . . but . . . but I would give you grounds if you would agree."

He turned away from her in disgust. "That is even more impossible. . . . A gentleman never divorces his wife."

"Let's leave the gentlemen out of it, Anson," she said.