He did believe in Lizzie Greystock, thinking
that intellect, purity, truth, and beauty, each perfect in its degree,
were combined in her. The intellect and beauty were there; but for the
purity and truth, how could it have been that such a one as Sir Florian
Eustace should have been so blind!
Sir Florian was not indeed a clever man; but he believed himself to be a
fool, and believing himself to be a fool, he desired, nay, painfully
longed, for some of those results of cleverness which might, he thought,
come to him from contact with a clever woman. Lizzie read poetry well, and
she read verses to him, sitting very near to him, almost in the dark, with
a shaded lamp throwing its light on her book. He was astonished to find
how sweet a thing was poetry. By himself he could never read a line, but
as it came from her lips it seemed to charm him. It was a new pleasure,
and one which, though he had ridiculed it, he had so often coveted! And
then she told him of such wondrous thoughts, such wondrous joys in the
world which would come from thinking! He was proud, I have said, and
haughty; but he was essentially modest and humble in his self-estimation.
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