Camilla Macauley Character Analysis

It was like a painting too vivid to be real—every pebble, every blade of grass sharply defined, the sky so blue it hurt me to look at it. Camilla was limp in Henry’s arms, her head thrown back like a dead girl’s, and the curve of her throat beautiful and lifeless.

And the horrible thing was, somehow, that I did know. “You killed somebody,” I said, “didn’t you?”

“Good for you,” he said. “You’re just as smart as I thought you were. I knew you’d figure it out, sooner or later, that’s what I’ve told the others all along.”

Do you know how hard that was? Do you think Henry would lower himself to do something like that? No. It was all right, of course, for me to do it but he couldn’t be bothered. Those people had never seen anything like Henry in their lives. I’ll tell you the sort of thing he worried about. Like if he was carrying around the right book, if Homer would make a better impression than Thomas Aquinas.

“I can’t marry you [. . .] because I love Henry.”

“Henry’s dead.”

“I can’t help it. I still love him.”

I loved him, too,” I said.

For a moment, I thought I felt her waver. But then she looked away.

“I know you did,” she said. “But it’s not enough.”

It was like a painting too vivid to be real—every pebble, every blade of grass sharply defined, the sky so blue it hurt me to look at it. Camilla was limp in Henry’s arms, her head thrown back like a dead girl’s, and the curve of her throat beautiful and lifeless.

And the horrible thing was, somehow, that I did know. “You killed somebody,” I said, “didn’t you?”

“Good for you,” he said. “You’re just as smart as I thought you were. I knew you’d figure it out, sooner or later, that’s what I’ve told the others all along.”

Do you know how hard that was? Do you think Henry would lower himself to do something like that? No. It was all right, of course, for me to do it but he couldn’t be bothered. Those people had never seen anything like Henry in their lives. I’ll tell you the sort of thing he worried about. Like if he was carrying around the right book, if Homer would make a better impression than Thomas Aquinas.

“I can’t marry you [. . .] because I love Henry.”

“Henry’s dead.”

“I can’t help it. I still love him.”

I loved him, too,” I said.

For a moment, I thought I felt her waver. But then she looked away.

“I know you did,” she said. “But it’s not enough.”