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178 of silent reproof, as he strokes the reddish beard with those long thin fingers, smites me like a physical blow. Why should I mind what he thinks? He has a very poor opinion of me, I know; he never conceals it. For his sister's sake he tolerates me; but he looks on me as a frivolous and wilful young woman, not worth talking to. Perhaps, if I submitted to his opinions in everything, he might condescend to do so. But I have no idea of doing that. It is doubtful, indeed, if we should ever get on well, our ideas on most subjects, beginning with art, being so diametrically opposed. He was right about Anatole Doucet: I grant that. I treated the reptile as though he had no fang; the man divined that he had one. But, because he chooses to dislike this nice, harmless Englishman, am I not to amuse myself in his society? Am I to lose all right of private judgment in deference to the views of a man of whom I may say I know very little, though we have been in daily intercourse for more than two months? I have written that I 'admire' him, nevertheless. Why? Because, with all his faults (foremost among them that he does not appreciate me!), I am conscious that there is something grand about him, different from any other man I have yet known. He is careless about the opinion of others; takes no pains to conciliate any one; but his devotion to Hatty, which prevents his travelling, shows his unselfishness; and I feel sure he is incapable of a sordid or ignoble action. One thing I am now sure of. His meeting me that night, when I had fallen into the trap laid for me by Monsieur Doucet, was not accidental. He divined, or obtained knowledge of, the plot in which I half suspect Madame de