I had
a stronger and stronger sense that among these glancing, passing
multitudes there was somewhere one who was for me. And in spite of every
antagonistic force in the world, there was something in my very marrow
that insisted: "Stop! Look at this one! Think of her! Won't she do?
This signifies--this before all things signifies! Stop! Why are you
hurrying by? This may be the predestined person--before all others."
It is odd that I can't remember when first I saw Marion, who became my
wife--whom I was to make wretched, who was to make me wretched, who
was to pluck that fine generalised possibility of love out of my early
manhood and make it a personal conflict. I became aware of her as one of
a number of interesting attractive figures that moved about in my world,
that glanced back at my eyes, that flitted by with a kind of averted
watchfulness. I would meet her coming through the Art Museum, which
was my short cut to the Brompton Road, or see her sitting, reading as I
thought, in one of the bays of the Education Library. But really, as I
found out afterwards, she never read.
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