The familiar surroundings had
not darkened because of her grief, nor sickened because of her pain.
She might have seen that what had bowed her head so profoundly--the
thought of the world's concern at her situation--was founded on an
illusion. She was not an existence, an experience, a passion, a
structure of sensations, to anybody but herself. To all humankind
besides, Tess was only a passing thought. Even to friends she was
no more than a frequently passing thought. If she made herself
miserable the livelong night and day it was only this much to
them--"Ah, she makes herself unhappy." If she tried to be cheerful,
to dismiss all care, to take pleasure in the daylight, the flowers,
the baby, she could only be this idea to them--"Ah, she bears it
very well." Moreover, alone in a desert island would she have been
wretched at what had happened to her? Not greatly. If she could
have been but just created, to discover herself as a spouseless
mother, with no experience of life except as the parent of a nameless
child, would the position have caused her to despair? No, she would
have taken it calmly, and found pleasure therein. Most of the misery
had been generated by her conventional aspect, and not by her innate
sensations.
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