Haunted by fear, she in turn haunted her fear. She could not keep
from staring down the throat of the pit. She was a slave of the
morrow, the undefined, awful morrow, ever about to bring forth no
one knows what. That morrow could she but forestall!
If any should think that anxiety and watching must have so
wrought on Sepia that she came to be no longer accountable for
her actions, I will not oppose the kind conclusion. For my own
part, until I shall have seen a man absolutely one with the
source of his being, I do not believe I shall ever have seen a
man absolutely sane. What many would point to as plainest proofs
of sanity, I should regard as surest signs of the contrary.
A sign of my own insanity is it?
Your insanity may be worse than mine, for you are aware of none,
and I with mine do battle. I believe all insanity has moral as
well as physical roots. But enough of this. There are questions
we can afford to leave.
Sepia had got very thin during these trying days. Her great eyes
were larger yet, and filled with a troubled anxiety. Not
paleness, for of that her complexion was incapable, but a dull
pallor possessed her cheek. If one had met her as she roamed the
house that night, he might well have taken her for some naughty
ancestor, whose troubled conscience, not yet able to shake off
the madness of some evil deed, made her wander still about the
place where she had committed it.
Pages:
590
591
592
593
594
595
596
597
598
599
600
601
602
603
604
605
606
607
608
609
610
611
612
613
614