She
felt more and more sure that the danger was real, however the knowledge
of it had come; a terrible danger, but not to herself. It seemed strange
now that she had been blind so long, and yet, how could she have
suspected such a horror? Lord Bulchester felt it, too, only that he
would not allow himself to believe it. But it was he who had brought
conviction home; it would never have come, she thought, if she had not
seen him yesterday. But it had come, and it remained. It held her like a
vise, drawing her back toward it whenever she tried to escape, driving
off sleep forcibly when more than once that seemed about to seize her.
What was she to do with it? Plainly, something. It and rest could never
dwell together. But what? And how could she do it? A conviction which
pressed upon herself with the force of a certainty, and yet had no
proofs by which to establish itself, was not an easy thing to make felt
by another mind. And when it was a conviction of danger, and that other
had by nature and training a contempt of danger, the difficulties were
increased.
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