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Adams, Henry, 1838-1918

"Democracy, an American novel"

Do you suppose the time will ever come when every one will
be good and happy and do just what they ought? I thought this
offer might possibly take one anxiety off your shoulders. I am
sorry now that I let myself be led into making it."
Carrington could not answer her. He dared not trust his voice. He
rose to go, and as she held out her hand, he suddenly raised it to
his lips, and so left her. She sat for a moment with tears in her eyes
after he was gone. She thought she knew all that was in his mind,
and with a woman's readiness to explain every act of men by their
consuming passions for her own sex, she took it as a matter of
course that jealousy was the whole cause of Carrington's hostility
to Ratcliffe, and she pardoned it with charming alacrity. "Ten
years ago, I could have loved him," she thought to herself, and
then, while she was half smiling at the idea, suddenly another
thought flashed upon her, and she threw her hand up before her
face as though some one had struck her a blow. Carrington had
reopened the old wound.
When Ratcliffe came to see her again, which he did very shortly
afterwards, glad of so good an excuse, she told him of Carrington's
refusal, adding only that he seemed unwilling to accept any
position that had a political character. Ratcliffe showed no sign of
displeasure; he only said, in a benignant tone, that he was sorry to
be unable to do something for so good a friend of hers; thus
establishing, at all events, his claim on her gratitude.


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