I say
perhaps; we cannot tell what might have been. And it is particularly
in such cases as mine, when body and spirit are alike affected, that
we are the most easily thrown out of balance by unforeseen
influences, by some sudden wave of feeling, by the mood of another,
by the interference of time and place.
The day after I made the last entry in my journal, I did not see
Gabriel until the evening. Constance had a headache, my poor sweet,
and wished to be alone; so I, too, was alone nearly all day. And all
day long I rehearsed the scene to come, gathering all my strength
together, telling him in my imagination what I had to tell, in
twenty different ways. When evening came, my heart was dead. I felt
absolutely nothing. I remember singing as I made myself tidy for
supper, and being so offended with myself for doing so that I left
off, in order to simulate, at least, a depression I no longer felt.
Gabriel supped with us, and we were exceedingly merry; not that I
was necessarily merry, not being sad,--indeed, I was neither the one
nor the other, but my heart was dead, and I let my body do as it
would.
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