She reflected too, that while she had so freely opened the door to him,
and had admitted him with a confidence wholly inexcusable, he had in no
way returned that confidence. She searched her memory for some
word--some expression of his, that would even hint at what he thought,
or believed, or was, within himself; something that would justify her in
feeling that she knew him even a little. But there was nothing. It was
as though this stranger, whom she had admitted into the privacy of the
inner chamber, had worn mask and gown. No self-betraying expression had
escaped him. He had not even told her his name. While she had laid out
for his inspection the strongest passions of her life; had felt herself
urged to show him all, and had kept nothing hidden. He had looked and
had gone away making no comment.
"Of course," she thought, "he is a gentleman, and he is cultured and
refined, and a good man too." Of this she was sure, but that was nothing.
One does not talk as she had talked to a man just because he is not a
ruffian or a boor. She wanted to know him as she had made herself known
to him. She could not say why.
The nurse's work in Corinth was nearly finished; she would probably never
meet this man again. She started at the thought. Would she ever meet him
again? What did it matter? And yet--she would not confess it even to
herself, but it did, somehow, seem to matter. Of one thing she was
sure--he was well worth knowing.
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