The silly, senseless words came as if mechanically from my lips, as if I had been reading them out of a news sheet.
"I understood you perfectly," said Pistorius softly. "You are quite right."
We waited. Then he continued slowly: "So far as one man can be right in his judgment of another."
No, no, a voice inside me said, I am wrong; but I could not say anything.
I knew that I had aimed my single little word at his one essential weakness.
I had touched the point of which he himself was distrustful. His idea was "antiquarian." He was a seeker, but retrogressive, he was a romantic.
And suddenly I realized that it was just what he had been to me and had given me that he could not be and give to himself.
He had guided me to a point on the road, beyond which he, the guide, could not go.
God knows how I could have uttered such a word! I had not meant it badly.
I had had no idea it would lead to a catastrophe. I had uttered something, the import of which I did not myself realize at the moment of utterance.
I had surrendered myself to a somewhat witty, somewhat malicious inspiration, and fate used it as her instrument.
I had been guilty of a little thoughtlessness, crudeness, and he had accepted it as a judgment.
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