Or perhaps it was mere temperament, as she
argued to herself later, for which they were both responsible. Those
little tricks of coaxing, of tenderness, of wilfulness, by means of which
other girls wriggled their way so successfully into a warm nest of cosy
affection: she had never been able to employ them. Beneath her
self-confidence was a shyness, an immovable reserve that had always
prevented her from expressing her emotions. She had inherited it,
doubtless enough, from him. Perhaps one day, between them, they would
break down the barrier, the strength of which seemed to lie in its very
flimsiness, its impalpability.
And then during college vacations, returning home with growing notions
and views of her own, she had found herself so often in antagonism with
him. His fierce puritanism, so opposed to all her enthusiasms. Arguing
with him, she might almost have been listening to one of his Cromwellian
ancestors risen from the dead. There had been disputes between him and
his work-people, and Joan had taken the side of the men. He had not been
angry with her, but coldly contemptuous.
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