Over and over again her spirit shrank at some new evidence of the fact
that, with all his love for her, his admiration, his loyalty, there was
a reservation in her husband's heart, a conviction--of which he was
perhaps not conscious himself--that Julia was not quite as other women.
Her criticism of others must be more gentle, her opinion less
confidently offered. Others might find in her exceptional charms, rare
strength, and rare wisdom--not Jim. For him she was always the exquisite
penitent, who had so royally earned a perpetually renewed forgiveness,
the little crippled playfellow whom it was his delight to carry in his
arms. His judgment for what concerned his children was the wiser, and
for her, too, when she longed to throw herself into this work of reform
or that--to expose herself, in other words, to the very element from
which a kind Providence had seen fit to remove her. Obviously, on
certain subjects there must not be two opinions, in any house, and,
whatever the usual custom, obviously he was the person to decide in his
own.
"Rich says you were not a saint yourself when you were in college, Jim!"
she had burst out once, long years ago, before their separation.
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