I was struck by a sudden, savage resentment at her tone, which was pitying, yet I took a strange pleasure in it too. I sat with my head held high, tasting bitter pride in my own weakness, and hating myself for it at the same time, because, cynical and hardened as I believed myself to be at twenty-four, I had never stopped to consider that pity might, in fact, be just another facet of love.
