"
"There's nothing," she repeated, "in all the world."
"I know. I know. But all the same I must go." He had got it at last.
"To be right."
"To be right?"
She had echoed it in vague deprecation, but he felt it already
clear for her. "That, you see, is my only logic.
Not, out of the whole affair, to have got anything for myself."
She thought. "But with your wonderful impressions you'll have
got a great deal."
"A great deal"--he agreed. "But nothing like YOU. It's you who
would make me wrong!"
Honest and fine, she couldn't greatly pretend she didn't see it.
Still she could pretend just a little. "But why should you be so
dreadfully right?"
"That's the way that--if I must go--you yourself would be the first
to want me. And I can't do anything else."
So then she had to take it, though still with her defeated protest.
"It isn't so much your BEING 'right'--it's your horrible sharp eye
for what makes you so."
"Oh but you're just as bad yourself. You can't resist me when I
point that out."
She sighed it at last all comically, all tragically, away.
"I can't indeed resist you."
"Then there we are!" said Strether.
This is the end of the Project Gutenberg Edition of The Ambassadors,
by Henry James.
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