He turned away in dumb amazement. "I don't
know how I seemed to be taking it," he said, "but she seemed really to
desire--I don't know why--something in the way of reproach and
vituperation. But I couldn't, in that way, have uttered a syllable. I
was sickened; I wanted to get away into the air--to shake her off and
come to my senses. 'Have you nothing, nothing, nothing to say?' she
cried, as if she were disappointed, while I stood with my hand on the
door. 'Haven't I treated you to talk enough?' I believed I answered.
'You will write to me then, when you get home?' 'I think not,' said I.
'Six months hence, I fancy, you will come and see me!' 'Never!' said I.
'That's a confession of stupidity,' she answered. 'It means that, even
on reflection, you will never understand the philosophy of my conduct.'
The word 'philosophy' seemed so strange that I verily believe I smiled.
'I have given you all that you gave me,' she went on. 'Your passion was
an affair of the head.' 'I only wish you had told me sooner that you
considered it so!' I exclaimed. And I went my way. The next day I came
down the Rhine. I sat all day on the boat, not knowing where I was
going, where to get off. I was in a kind of ague of terror; it seemed to
me I had seen something infernal.
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