The strife, the agony of vainly-sought
escape, and the unrest--a sort of prison atmosphere--this I have felt at
different times and with varying degrees of strength. But I find, as
yet, no final label to attach. I couldn't say pagan, Christian, or
anything like that, I mean, as you do. As with the blind and deaf, you
may have an intensification of certain senses denied to me, or even
another sense altogether in embryo--"
"Perhaps," she stopped me, anxious to keep to the point, "you feel it as
Mabel does. She feels the whole thing complete."
"That also is possible," I said very slowly. I was thinking behind my
words. Her odd remark that it was "big and awful" came back upon me as
true. A vast sensation of distress and discomfort swept me suddenly.
Pity was in it, and a fierce contempt, a savage, bitter anger as well.
Fury against some sham authority was part of it.
"Frances," I said, caught unawares, and dropping all pretence, "what in
the world can it be?" I looked hard at her. For some minutes neither of
us spoke.
"Have you felt no desire to interpret it?" she asked presently, "Mabel
did suggest my writing something about the house," was my reply, "but
I've felt nothing imperative.
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