I've become cursed with the twin devils
of analysis and introspection. I don't love Jim; I tolerate him. One
can't go through life merely tolerating one's husband, and the sort of
friends and the sort of existence that appeals to one's husband,
unless one is utterly ox-like--and I'm not. Women have lived with men
they cared nothing for since the beginning of time, I suppose, because
of various reasons--but I see no reason why I should. I'm a rebel--in
full revolt against shams and stupidity and ignorance, because those
three have brought me where I am and you where you are. I'm a disarmed
and helpless _revolte_ by myself. One doesn't want to go from bad to
worse. One wants instinctively to progress from good to better. One
makes mistakes and seeks to rectify them--if it is possible. One sees
suffering arise as the result of one's involuntary acts, and one
wishes wistfully to relieve it. That's the simple truth, Robin. Only a
simple truth is often a very complex thing. It seems so with us."
"It is," Hollister muttered, "and it might easily become more so.
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