But since that day,
since her words about Androvsky's lack of perfect happiness even with
her far out in the freedom of the desert, Domini had been conscious
that, despite their great love for each other, their mutual passion for
the solitude in which it grew each day more deep and more engrossing,
wrapping their lives in fire and leading them on to the inner abodes of
sacred understanding, there was at moments a barrier between them.
At first she had striven not to recognise its existence. She had
striven to be blind. But she was essentially a brave woman and an almost
fanatical lover of truth for its own sake, thinking that what is called
an ugly truth is less ugly than the loveliest lie. To deny truth is to
play the coward. She could not long do that. And so she quickly learned
to face this truth with steady eyes and an unflinching heart.
At moments Androvsky retreated from her, his mind became remote--more,
his heart was far from her, and, in its distant place, was suffering. Of
that she was assured.
But she was assured, too, that she stood to him for perfection in human
companionship. A woman's love is, perhaps, the only true divining rod.
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