or sleep.

Magna, you will think me brutal, too, because I now tell you in black
and white what formerly I lacked the courage to say. Believe me, it was
often on the tip of my tongue to exclaim: "Better have a lover than
torment this poor man whose temperament is so different to your own."

I will not say you did not care for your husband. You learnt to see his
good qualities; but there was no true union between you. You hated his
work. Not like a woman who is jealous of the time spent away from her;
but because you believed such arduous brain work made him less ardent as
a lover. Although you did not really care for him, you would have
sacrificed all his fame and reputation for an hour of unreasoning
passion.

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