Yes. She must make him hurt her. She
must have pain of him to bear....
Harry slept on. She began to caress his pillow, and crooned over him like
a mother with her child, and found herself blushing and was still and
silent again. Indeed, she was detestable. To make a show of fondling
after having driven him to the edge of death! To chatter and flutter
about him when he had no more than strength enough for sleep! Why, this
was the very way for a light o' love. And, indeed, she was no better,
wanting him only for her pleasure, for what he would give, watching
greedily till he should be fit to serve her turn again. Yes, that was the
only way of love Mrs. Alison understood.
It was some satisfaction to scold herself, to make herself believe that
she was vile. For she wanted to suffer, she wanted to be humbled. Not so
much for the comfort of penance, not even for the luxury of sensation
which makes self-torture pleasure, but that she might be sure of
realizing her sins against the love which was now in command of all her
being, and go on to serve it with a clean devotion. One thing only was
worth doing, in one thing only could there be honour and joy, to make him
welcome her and have delight in her... And so she fell among dreams....
She saw something glitter on the table by the bed, and idly put out her
hand for it.
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