Franklyn asked us to come,
artists, unbelieving vagabonds, types at the farthest possible remove
from the saved sheep of her husband's household? Had a reaction set in
against the hysteria of her conversion? I had seen no signs of religious
fervor in her; her atmosphere was that of an ordinary, high-minded
woman, yet a woman of the world. Lifeless, though, a little, perhaps,
now that I came to think about it: she had made no definite impression
upon me of any kind. And my thoughts ran vaguely after this fragile
clue.
Closing my book, I let them run. For, with this chance reflection came
the discovery that I could not see her clearly--could not feel her soul,
her personality. Her face, her small pale eyes, her dress and body and
walk, all these stood before me like a photograph; but her Self evaded
me. She seemed not there, lifeless, empty, a shadow--nothing. The
picture was disagreeable, and I put it by. Instantly she melted out, as
though light thought had conjured up a phantom that had no real
existence. And at that very moment, singularly enough, my eye caught
sight of her moving past the window, going silently along the gravel
path. I watched her, a sudden new sensation gripping me.
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