pitied 'poor Mr. Willoughby', and had refused to go out and buy herrings
for Esther's early dinner.

Every affront or grievance, real or imaginary, since the day she and
Willoughby had first met, she poured forth with a fluency due to
frequent repetition, for, with the exception of today's added injuries,
Willoughby had heard the whole litany many times before.

While she raged and he looked at her, he remembered he had once thought
her pretty. He had seen beauty in her rough brown hair, her strong
colouring, her full red mouth. He fell into musing ... a woman may lack
beauty, he told himself, and yet be loved....

Meanwhile Esther reached white heats of passion, and the strain could no
longer be sustained. She broke into sobs and began to shed tears with
the facility peculiar to her. In a moment her face was all wet with the
big drops which rolled down her cheeks faster and faster, and fell with
audible splashes on to the table, on to her lap, on to the floor. To
this tearful abundance, formerly a surprising spectacle, Willoughby
was now acclimatized; but the remnant of chivalrous feeling not yet
extinguished in his bosom forbade him to sit stolidly by while a woman
wept, without seeking to console her. As on previous occasions, his
peace-overtures were eventually accepted. Esther's tears gradually
ceased to flow, she began to exhibit a sort of compunction, she wished
to be forgiven, and, with the kiss of reconciliation, passed into a
phase of demonstrative affection perhaps more trying to Willoughby's
patience than all that had preceded it. 'You don't love me?' she
questioned, 'I'm sure you don't love me?' she reiterated; and he
asseverated that he loved her until he despised himself. Then at last,
only half satisfied, but wearied out with vexation--possibly, too, with