She, perhaps, displayed herself rather consciously as a fine person unduly limited. This one was Henry Esmond, that one the melancholy Marius, and so forth and so on; never any villains. When she saw Ann Veronica she stood for a moment as if entranced, and then advanced with outstretched hands. Nobody who cared. She wanted to think of him as her beloved person, to be near him and watch him, to have him going about, doing this and that, saying this and that, unconscious of her, while she too remained unconscious of herself. You cannot care for her.
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