And I, who pretend to revolt, I like it too; and I,
who rail and scorn flatterers--oh, I like admiration! I am pleased when
the women hate me, and the young men leave them for me. Though I despise
many of these, yet I can't help drawing them towards me. One or two of
them I have seen unhappy about me, and I like it; and if they are
indifferent I am angry, and never tire till they come back. I love
beautiful dresses; I love jewels; I love a great name and a fine house--
oh, I despise myself, when I think of these things! When I lie in bed and
say I have been heartless and a coquette, I cry with humiliation; and
then rebel and say, Why not?--and to-night--yes, to-night--after leaving
you, I shall be wicked, I know I shall.
Madame de F. (sadly). One will pray for thee, my child.
Ethel (sadly). I thought I might be good once. I used to say my own
prayers then. Now I speak them but by rote, and feel ashamed--yes,
ashamed to speak them. Is it not horrid to say them, and next morning to
be no better than you were last night? Often I revolt at these as at
other things, and am dumb.
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