"I had no illusions about you," he said. "I knew you were silly and frivolous and empty-headed.
But I loved you. I knew that your aims and ideals were vulgar and commonplace. But I loved
you. I knew that you were second-rate. But I loved you. It's comic when I think how hard I tried
to be amused by the things that amused you and how anxious I was to hide from you that I wasn't
ignorant and vulgar and scandal-mongering and stupid. I knew how frightened you were of
intelligence and I did everything I could to make you think me as big a fool as the rest of the men
you knew. I knew that you'd only married me for convenience. I loved you so much, I didn't care.
Most people, as far as I can see, when they're in love with someone and the love isn't returned
feel that they have a grievance. They grow angry and bitter. I wasn't like that. I never expected
you to love me, I didn't see any reason that you should, I never thought myself very lovable. I
was thankful to be allowed to love you and I was enraptured when now and then I thought you
were pleased with me or when I noticed in your eyes a gleam of good-humoured affection. I tried not to bore you with my love; I knew I couldn't afford to do that and I was always on the lookout
for the first sign that you were impatient with my affection. What most husbands expect as a
right I was prepared to receive as a favour."
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