She would have interrupted me before, but I would not be stopped.
“I must tell you, my dear Duncan,” she answered, “that in none of these trances, or whatever you please to call them, did I ever see a mirror. It has struck me before as a curious thing, that a mirror is then an absolute blank to me—I see nothing on which I could put a name. It does not even seem a vacant space to me. A mirror must have nothing in common with the state I am then in, for I feel a kind of repulsion from it; and indeed it would be rather an awful thing to look at, for of course I should see no reflection of myself in it.”
(Here I beg once more to remind the reader, that Margaret spoke in Gaelic, and that my translation into ordinary English does not in the least represent the extreme simplicity of the forms of her speculations, any more than of the language which conveyed them.)
“But,” she continued, “I have a vague recollection of seeing some broad, big, gilded thing with figures on it. It might be something else, though, altogether.”
“I will go in hope,” I answered, rising at once.
“Not already, Duncan?”
“Why should I stay longer?”
“Stay over to-night.”
“What is the use? I cannot.”
“For my sake, Duncan!”