Even if this excuse had not presented itself he must very soon
have yielded to the longing for a sight of his wife's face which
day by day increased among all the conflicting passions of which
he was the victim. A month or two ago, when the summer sunshine
made his confinement to the streets a daily torture, he convinced
himself that there remained in him no trace of his love for Amy;
there were moments when he thought of her with repugnance, as a
cold, selfish woman, who had feigned affection when it seemed her
interest to do so, but brutally declared her true self when there
was no longer anything to be hoped from him. That was the self-
deception of misery. Love, even passion, was still alive in the
depths of his being; the animation with which he sped to his
friend as soon as a new hope had risen was the best proof of his
feeling.
He went home and wrote to Amy.
'I have a reason for wishing to see you. Will you have the
kindness to appoint an hour on Sunday morning when I can speak
with you in private? It must be understood that I shall see no
one else.
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