"Could you—be honest, now, with yourself, for you need not say a word aloud—could you always be sure of yourself, after this, in the face of any situation?"
She looked startled at his sudden shift of the argument to the personal ground.
Her ordinarily composed face betrayed everything, though it was averted from the rest of us and could be seen only fully by Kennedy.
In the welter of passion, as one fact after another had been torn forth during the moments since she had come to the laboratory, much had happened to Honora which never before had entered her well-ordered, conservative life.
She knew the truth that she strove to repress. She was afraid of herself. And she knew that he knew.
The defiance in her eyes died slowly.
"It is dangerous," she murmured, "to be with a person who pays attention to such little things. If every one were like you, I would no longer breathe a syllable of my dreams!"
She was sobbing now.
What was back of it all? I had heard of the so-called resolution dreams. I had heard of dreams that kill, of unconscious murder, of terrible acts of the somnambulist, of temporary insanity, of many deeds of which the doer had no recollection in the waking state, until put under hypnotism.
Could it be such a thing which Kennedy was driving at disclosing?