Grace felt giddy. It was not a feeling she usually experienced, least of all around absolute strangers. However, she was startlingly aware that it was not the pleasant conversation with the gentleman (oh, but it was pleasant, she told herself, and continued to with each exchange) that brought upon such emotions, but rather the realization that she was not as hopeless as a cause as she'd been convinced. All she had to do was avoid the intimidating sorts.
"Well, we cannot all be saints," she conceded, although she could hardly imagine in what area this gentleman—kind enough, pleasant enough, friendly enough—might be considered a hypocrite, "and I dare say admitting to your own hypocrisy would make it difficult to be too much of a hypocrite, don't you think? Isn't that the nature of hypocrisy?" That was why no one ever called her a hypocrite: she was all too aware of her own faults.
"Well, we cannot all be saints," she conceded, although she could hardly imagine in what area this gentleman—kind enough, pleasant enough, friendly enough—might be considered a hypocrite, "and I dare say admitting to your own hypocrisy would make it difficult to be too much of a hypocrite, don't you think? Isn't that the nature of hypocrisy?" That was why no one ever called her a hypocrite: she was all too aware of her own faults.
