st conceived himself to be.
He had been 'Mr Dombey' with her when she first saw him, and he was 'Mr
Dombey' when she died. He had asserted his greatness during their whole
married life, and she had meekly recognised it. He had kept his distant
seat of state on the top of his throne, and she her humble station on
its lowest step; and much good it had done him, so to live in solitary
bondage to his one idea. He had imagined that the proud character of his
second wife would have been added to his own--would have merged into it,
and exalted his greatness. He had pictured himself haughtier than ever,
with Edith's haughtiness subservient to his. He had never entertained
the possibility of its arraying itself against him. And now, when he
found it rising in his path at every step and turn of his daily life,
fixing its cold, defiant, and contemptuous face upon him, this pride of
his, instead of withering, or hanging down its head beneath the shock,
put forth new shoots, became more concentrated and intense, more gloomy,
sullen, irksome, and unyielding, than it had ever been before.

Who wears such armour, too, bears with him ever another heavy
retribution. It is of proof against conciliation, love, and confidence;
against all gentle sympathy from without, all trust, all tenderness, all
soft emotion; but to deep stabs in the self-love, it is as vulnerable as
the bare breast to steel; and such tormenting festers rankle there,
as follow on no other wounds, no, though dealt with the mailed hand of
Pride itself, on weaker pride, disarmed and thrown down.

Such wounds were his. He felt them sharply, in the solitude of his
old rooms; whither he now began often to retire again, and pass long
solitary hours. It seemed his fate to be ever proud and powerful; ever
humbled and powerless where he would be most strong. Who seemed fated to
work out that doom?

Who? Who was it who could win his wife as she had won his boy? Who was
it who had shown him that new victory, as he sat in the dark corner? Who
was it whose least word did what his utmost means could not? Who was it
who, unaided by his love, regard or notice, thrived and grew beautiful
when those so aided died? Who could it be, but the same child at whom
he had often glanced uneasily in her motherless infancy, with a kind of
dread, lest he might come to hate her; and of whom his foreboding was
fulfilled, for he DID hate her in his heart?

Yes, and he would have it hatred, and he made