But to defer thought in this way was something like trying to talk without singing in her own ears. The thought that is bound up with our passion is as penetrative as air--everything is porous to it; bows, smiles, conversation, repartee, are mere honeycombs where such thoughts rushes freely, not always with a taste of honey. And without shutting herself up in any solitude, Gwendolen seemed at the end of nine or ten hours to have gone through a labyrinth of reflection, in which already the same succession of prospects had been repeated, the same fallacious outlets rejected, the same shrinking from the necessities of every course. Already she was undergoing some hardening effect from feeling that she was under eyes which saw her past actions solely in the light of her lowest motives. She lived back in the scenes of her courtship, with the new bitter consciousness of what had been in Grandcourt's mind--certain now, with her present experience of him, that he had a peculiar triumph in conquering her dumb repugnance, and that ever since their marriage he had had a cold exultation in knowing her fancied secret. Her imagination exaggerated every tyrannical impulse he was capable of. "I will insist on being separated from him"--was her first darting determination; then, "I will leave him whether he consents or not. If this boy becomes his heir, I have made an atonement." But neither in darkness nor in daylight could she imagine the scenes which must carry out those determinations with the courage to feel them endurable. How could she run away to her own family--carry distress among them, and render herself an object of scandal in the society she had left behind her? What future lay before her as Mrs. Grandcourt gone back to her mother, who would be made destitute again by the rupture of the marriage for which one chief excuse had been that it had brought that mother a maintenance? She had lately been seeing her uncle and Anna in London, and though she had been saved from any difficulty about inviting them to stay in Grosvenor Square by their wish to be with Rex, who would not risk a meeting with her, the transient visit she had had from them helped now in giving stronger color to the picture of what it would be for her to take refuge in her own family. What could she say to justify her flight? Her uncle would tell her to go back. Her mother would cry. Her aunt and Anna would look at her with wondering alarm. Her husband would have power to compel her. She had absolutely nothing that she could allege against him in judicious or judicial ears. And to "insist on separation!" That was an easy combination of words; but considered as an action to be executed against Grandcourt, it would be about as practicable as to give him a pliant disposition and a dread of other people's unwillingness. How was she to begin? What was she to say that would not be a condemnation of herself? "If I am to have misery anyhow," was the bitter refrain of her rebellious dreams, "I had better have the misery that I can keep to myself." Moreover, her capability of rectitude told her again and again that she had no right to complain of her contract, or to withdraw from it.

But to defer thought in this way proved impossible. After nine or ten hours she seemed to have gone through a labyrinth of reflection, in which every path was a dead end. Already she was undergoing some hardening effect from feeling that she was viewed solely in the light of her lowest motives. She recalled the scenes of her courtship, with the new bitter consciousness of what had been in Grandcourt's mind - certain that he had a triumph in conquering her repugnance, and a cold exultation in knowing her fancied secret. Her imagination exaggerated every tyrannical impulse he was capable of.
"I will insist on being separated from him" - was her first darting determination; then, "I will leave him whether he consents or not. If this boy becomes his heir, I have made an atonement."
But those scenes would be unendurable. How could she run away to her own family, causing them distress and scandal? What future lay before a Mrs. Grandcourt gone back to her mother, and made destitute by the rupture of the marriage whose chief excuse had been that it had brought that mother a maintenance? What could she say to justify her flight? Her uncle would tell her to go back. Her mother would cry. Her aunt and Anna would look at her with wondering alarm. Her husband would have power to compel her. She had absolutely nothing that she could allege against him.
And to "insist on separation!" With Grandcourt, that was easier to say than do. How was she to begin? What was she to say that would not condemn herself? "If I am to have misery," was her bitter refrain, "I had better keep it secret." Moreover, her capability of rectitude told her again and again that she had no right to complain of her contract, or to withdraw from it.
