I wondered whether even in the Middle Ages I should have accepted that
ruling without question.

I remember too very distinctly how Effie came and sat beside me on a
little box: that was before the casement window of our room.

"Gloomkins," said she.

I smiled and remained head on hand, looking out of the window forgetful
of her.

"Did you love your wife so well?" she whispered softly.

"Oh!" I cried, recalled again; "I don't know. I don't understand these
things. Life is a thing that hurts, my dear! It hurts without logic or
reason. I've blundered! I didn't understand. Anyhow--there is no need to
go hurting you, is there?"

And I turned about and drew her to me, and kissed her ear....

Yes, I had a very bad time--I still recall. I suffered, I suppose, from
a sort of ennui of the imagination. I found myself without an object to
hold my will together. I sought. I read restlessly and discursively.
I tried Ewart and got no help from him. As I regard it all now in this
retrospect, it seems to me as if in those days of disgust and abandoned
aims I discovered myself for the first time. Before that I had seen only
the world and things in it, had sought them self-forgetful of all but
my impulse. Now I found myself GROUPED with a system of appetites and
satisfactions, with much work to do--and no desire, it seemed, left in
me.