And here am I writing of it! What I had determined not to do, is what I have done. Am I losing my senses already? The very names that I was most anxious to keep out of my memory stare me in the face in the lines that I have just written. Philip again! Helena again!
.......
Another day, and something new that must and will be remembered, shrink from it as I may. This afternoon, I met Helena on the stairs.
She stopped, and eyed me with a wicked smile; she held out her hand. “We are likely to meet often, while we are in the same house,” she said; “hadn’t we better consult appearances, and pretend to be as fond of each other as ever?”
I took no notice of her hand; I took no notice of her shameless proposal. She tried again: “After all, it isn’t my fault if Philip likes me better than he likes you. Don’t you see that?” I still refused to speak to her. She still persisted. “How black you look, Eunice! Are you sorry you didn’t kill me, when you had your hands on my throat?”
I said: “Yes.”
She laughed, and left me. I was obliged to sit down on the stair—I trembled so. My own reply frightened me. I tried to find out why I had said Yes. I don’t remember being conscious of meaning anything. It was as if somebody else had said Yes—not I. Perhaps I was provoked, and the word escaped me before I could stop it. Could I have stopped it? I don’t know.
.......
Another sleepless night.
Did I pass the miserable hours in writing letters to Philip and then tearing them up? Or did I only fancy that I wrote to him? I have just looked at the fireplace. The torn paper in it tells me that I did write. Why did I destroy my letters? I might have sent one of them to Philip. After what has happened? Oh, no! no!