“Afraid?” she repeated, vaguely. “No,” she suddenly resumed, more firmly. “A person never knows himself or another. I don’t know you, I don’t know myself.”
Something deep down within herself was warning her:
“Don’t marry, don’t give in. It’s better not, it’s better not.”
It was barely a whisper, a shadow of premonition. She had not thought it out; it was unconscious and mysterious as the depths of her soul. For she was not aware of it, she did not think it, she hardly heard it within herself. It flitted through her; it was not a feeling; it only left a thwarting reluctance in her, very plainly. Not until years later would she understand that unwillingness.
“No, Duco, it is better not.”
“Think it over, Cornélie.”
“It is better not,” she repeated, obstinately. “Please, don’t let us talk about it any more. It is better not, but I think it so horrid to refuse you, because you want it. I never refuse you anything, as you know. I would do anything else for you. But this time I feel ... it is better not!”
She went to him, all one caress, and kissed him:
“Don’t ask it of me again. What a cloud on your face! I can see that you mean to go on thinking of it.”
She stroked his forehead as though to smooth away the wrinkles: