Of the importance of her own self as a living thing with a heart to suffer
and a soul to endure, she thought enough. She believed in herself,
thinking of herself, that should it ever be her lot to be a man's wife,
she would be to him a true, loving friend and companion, living in his
joys, and fighting, if it were necessary, down to the stumps of her nails
in his interests. But of what she had to give over and above her heart and
intellect she never thought at all. Of personal beauty she had very little
appreciation even in others. The form and face of Lady Eustace, which
indeed were very lovely, were distasteful to her; whereas she delighted to
look upon the broad, plain, colourless countenance of Lydia Fawn, who was
endeared to her by frank good-humour and an unselfish disposition. In
regard to men, she had never asked herself the question whether this man
was handsome or that man ugly. Of Frank Greystock she knew that his face
was full of quick intellect; and of Lord Fawn she knew that he bore no
outward index of mind. One man she not only loved, but could not help
loving. The other man, as regarded that sort of sympathy which marriage
should recognise, must always have been worlds asunder from her.
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