With a great sob of uttermost anguish, she put back his hands, rose from the chair, and stood apart. Wilfrid rose and gazed at her in dread. Had the last calamity of human nature fallen upon her? He looked about, as if for aid. Emily read his thoughts perfectly; they helped her to a desperate composure.
'Wilfrid,' she said, 'do I speak like one not in her perfect mind?'
'I cannot say. Your words are meaningless to me. You are not the Emily I knew.'
'I am not,' was her sad answer. 'If you can bring yourself to believe that truth, you will spare yourself and me.'
'What do you mean when you say that?' he asked, his voice intensified in suppression. 'If you are in full command of yourself, if your memory holds all the past, what can have made of you another being? We dare not play with words at a time such as this. Tell me at least one thing. Do I know what it was that caused your illness?'
'I don't understand you.'
Her eyes examined him with fear.
'I mean, Emily—was it solely due to that shock you received? Or was there any previous distress?'
'Has anything led you to think there was?' she asked, urgently.
'Mrs. Baxendale tells me you—Emily, why have I to pain you in this way?'