This
attitude had often an exquisite beauty of its own, but Rowland deemed
that he had solid reason to believe it never could be Mary Garland's.
She was not a passive creature; she was not soft and meek and grateful
for chance bounties. With all her reserve of manner she was proud and
eager; she asked much and she wanted what she asked; she believed in
fine things and she never could long persuade herself that fine things
missed were as beautiful as fine things achieved. Once Rowland passed an
angry day. He had dreamed--it was the most insubstantial of dreams--that
she had given him the right to believe that she looked to him to
transmute her discontent. And yet here she was throwing herself back
into Roderick's arms at his lightest overture, and playing with his own
half fearful, half shameful hopes! Rowland declared to himself that
his position was essentially detestable, and that all the philosophy
he could bring to bear upon it would make it neither honorable nor
comfortable. He would go away and make an end of it. He did not go away;
he simply took a long walk, stayed away from the inn all day, and on his
return found Miss Garland sitting out in the moonlight with Roderick.
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