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There was, it is true, underneath, a back current of sympathy through which a woman of the world might have conquered him. But Tess did not think of this; she took everything as her deserts, and hardly opened her mouth. The firmness of her devotion to him was indeed almost pitiful; thought no evil of his treatment of her.
“Now, let us understand each other,” he said gently. “There is no anger between us, though there is that which I cannot endure at present. I will try to bring myself to endure it. And if I can bring myself to bear it—if it is desirable, possible—I will come to you. But until I come to you it will be better that you should not try to come to me.”
This night the woman of his belittling deprecations was thinking how great and good her husband was. But over them both hung a deeper shade than the shade which Angel Clare perceived, namely, the shade of his own limitations.
