"No, miss," he said, "thanking you kindly--but we don't often get a peep
at such sweet looks. It's worth sixpence to see you, it is. But, miss,
if I may make so bold as to say so, it isn't safe for you to cruise
about in that craft, any ways not alone."
Beatrice thanked him and blushed a little. Vaguely it occurred to her
that she must have more than a common share of beauty, when a rough man
could be so impressed with it. That was what men loved women for, their
beauty, as Owen Davies loved and desired her for this same cause and
this only.
Perhaps it was the same with Geoffrey--no, she did not believe it. He
loved her for other things besides her looks. Only if she had not been
beautiful, perhaps he would not have begun to love her, so she was
thankful for her eyes and hair, and form.
Could folly and infatuation go further? This woman in the darkest hour
of her bottomless and unhorizoned despair, with conscience gnawing at
her heart, with present misery pressing on her breast, and shame to come
hanging over her like a thunder cloud, could yet feel thankful that she
had won this barren love, the spring of all her woe.
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