His previous
statement that he was very ill was much nearer to the truth than the
fine talking about being "lots better." If not very ill, he was, at
any rate, more ill than he now thought he was, and eating had fatigued
him. Nevertheless, he would wash his own hands. Rachel yielded to him
in this detail with cynical indifference. She put the towel by the
bowl, and left him to balance the bowl and keep the soap off the
counterpane as best he could, while she rummaged in one of the drawers
of the wardrobe--obviously for the simple sake of rummaging.
Her unwifeliness was astounding; it was so astounding that Louis did
not all at once quite realize how dangerously he was wounded by it.
He had seen that hard, contumelious mask on her face several times
before; he had seen it, for instance, when she had been expressing her
views on Councillor Batchgrew; but he had not conceived, in his absurd
male confidence, that it would ever be directed against himself. He
could not snatch the mask from her face, but he wondered how he might
pierce it, and incidentally hurt her and make her cry softly. Ah!
He had seen her in moods of softness which were celestial to
him--surpassing all dreams of felicity!
The conviction of his own innocence and victimhood strengthened
in him.
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