Perhaps Sophie's courage might fail her, or her strength give way,
leaving the ugly story but half told, and then her father would come to
her to learn the rest. What should she do then? How much more terrible
to be obliged to tell him then, after having made up her mind that her
sister was to take the burden off her shoulders, than it would have been
before any such resource had presented itself! How much more awful to
meet her father when aroused by suspicion and anger, and perhaps
loathing, than to begin her confession while his face was as she had
always seen it, when turned toward her--loving and tender!
She could not sit still, at last, but rose up from her chair to walk the
room--not from the old, restless energy, which needed physical exercise
to keep it within bounds, for Cornelia was now white and faint, from
exhaustion of mind and body, but from the tumult of pervading fear and
delusive hope--the attention strained to catch some sound from below,
and the dread lest it should never come. As the suspense grew more
painful, the rapidity of her walk increased.
She expected now, every moment, to catch herself shrieking aloud, or
performing some mad action or other. How long had she been up there
already? Was it an hour yet? It must be an hour.
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