She would ask to be introduced, or even come up sweetly and
introduce herself within half an hour of the battle. But Madame Plume
forgot nothing; her memory was keen and accurate. She did not believe
in the other's failing. 'That common old woman!' she exclaimed with
angry scorn to her daughter.
'It's deliberate offensiveness, that's all it is at all!' And she left
the Pension.
But her attitude to the harmless old Quaker lady was really in small
her attitude to humanity at large. She drew away in disgust from a
world that had treated her so badly. Into herself she drew, growing
smaller every day, more sour, more suspicious, and more averse to her
own kind. Within the restricted orbit of her own bitter thoughts she
revolved towards the vanishing point of life which is the total loss
of sympathy. She felt _with_ no one but herself. She belonged to that,
alas, numerous type which, with large expectations unrealised, cannot
accept disillusionment with the gentle laughter it deserves. She
resented the universe. Sympathy was dead.
And she had chosen this unsavoury corner to dwell in because 'the
poor' of the village lived there, and she wished to count herself
among them. It emphasised the spite, the grudge, she felt against
humanity. At first she came into _dejeuner_ and _souper_, but
afterwards her meals were sent over twice a day from the Pension.
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