THERE was in Niels Lyhne's nature a lame reflec-tiveness, child of
an instinctive shrinking from decisive action, grandchild of a
subconscious sense that he lacked personality. He was always
struggling against this reflectiveness, sometimes goading himself
by calling it vile names, then again decking it out as a virtue
that was a part of his inmost self and was bound up with all his
possibilities and powers. But whatever he made of it, and however
he looked upon it, he hated it as a secret infirmity, which he
might perhaps hide from the world, but never from himself; it was
always there to humiliate him whenever he was alone with himself.
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