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But the wretch put her face close to mine and I could not move.
Directly I had looked into her eyes I felt grown on to the carpet."
It was years afterwards that she used to talk like this to Mrs. Fyne--and
to Mrs. Fyne alone. Nobody else ever heard the story from her lips. But
it was never forgotten. It was always felt; it remained like a mark on
her soul, a sort of mystic wound, to be contemplated, to be meditated
over. And she said further to Mrs. Fyne, in the course of many
confidences provoked by that contemplation, that, as long as that woman
called her names, it was almost soothing, it was in a manner reassuring.
Her imagination had, like her body, gone off in a wild bound to meet the
unknown; and then to hear after all something which more in its tone than
in its substance was mere venomous abuse, had steadied the inward flutter
of all her being.
"She called me a little fool more times than I can remember. I! A fool!
Why, Mrs. Fyne! I do assure you I had never yet thought at all; never of
anything in the world, till then. I just went on living.


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