At his death you lost the breadwinner and the position you had gained
in the world as the wife of a celebrity. Your grief was sincere; you
felt your loneliness and loss. Then for the first time you clung to your
children, and erroneously believed you were moved by maternal feeling.
You honestly intended henceforward to live for them alone.
All went well for three months, and then the struggle began. Do you
know, Magna, I admired the way you fought. You would not give way an
inch. You wore the deepest weeds. Sheltered behind your crape, you
surrounded yourself by your children, and fought for your life.
This inward conflict added to your attractions. It gave you an air of
nobility you had hitherto lacked.
Then the world began to whisper evil about you while you were still
quite irreproachable.
No, after all there _was_ something to reproach you with, although it
was not known to outsiders. While you were fighting your instincts and
trying to live as a spotless widow, your character was undergoing a
change: against your will, but not unconsciously, you were become a
perfect fury.
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