Anyway, come what might of it, she had chosen the preferable
alternative to a private interview with Julian Gray. She raised
herself from her recumbent position with a start, as the idea of
the interview--dismissed for the last few minutes--possessed
itself again of her mind. Her excited imagination figured Julian
Gray as present in the room at that moment, speaking to her as
Horace had proposed. She saw him seated close at her side--this
man who had shaken her to the soul when he was in the pulpit, and
when she was listening to him (unseen) at the other end of the
chapel--she saw him close by her, looking her searchingly in the
face; seeing her shameful secret in her eyes; hearing it in her
voice; feeling it in her trembling hands; forcing it out of her
word by word, till she fell prostrate at his feet with the
confession of the fraud. Her head dropped again on the cushions;
she hid her face in horror of the scene which her excited fancy
had conjured up. Even now, when she had made that dreaded
interview needless, could she feel sure (meeting him only on the
most distant terms) of not betraying herself? She could _not_
feel sure. Something in her shuddered and shrank at the bare idea
of finding herself in the same room with him.
Pages:
93
94
95
96
97
98
99
100
101
102
103
104
105
106
107
108
109
110
111
112
113
114
115
116
117