She loved Paul Montague with all her heart, and she despised herself for loving him.  How weak he was;—­how inefficient; how unable to seize glorious opportunities; how swathed and swaddled by scruples and prejudices;—­how unlike her own countrymen in quickness of apprehension and readiness of action!  But yet she loved him for his very faults, telling herself that there was something sweeter in his English manners than in all the smart intelligence of her own land.  The man had been false to her,—­false as hell; had sworn to her and had broken his oath; had ruined her whole life; had made everything blank before her by his treachery!  But then she also had not been quite true with him.  She had not at first meant to deceive;—­nor had he.  They...