She seemed to hear her husband once more telling her that she was perfect.

Yet against this torture, she had a better defence.

She had long since hardened herself to bear these recollections, and they steadied and strengthened her.
She had been called perfect before now, and what had come of it?
Two graves, and a broken life! She drew herself up with a face now grown quite pale and rigid.

In reply to Carrington, she said not a word, but only shook her head slightly without looking at him.
He went on: "After all, it is not my own happiness I am thinking of but yours.

I never was vain enough to think that I was worth your love, or that I could ever win it.