“Yes,” she assented. “They are something like that. But I should not call them illusions.”
“No. And they represent scenes, events?”
“You said yourself they were not dramatic.”
“I meant, represent pictorially.”
“No; they are like the landscape that flies back from your train or towards it. I can’t explain it,” she ended, rising with what he felt a displeasure in his pursuit.
IV
He reported what had passed to her father when Mr. Gerald came back from his stroll into the town, with his hands full of English papers; Gerald had even found a New York paper at the news-stand; and he listened with an apparent postponement of interest.
“I think,” Lanfear said, “that she has some shadowy recollection, or rather that the facts come to her in a jarred, confused way—the elements of pictures, not pictures. But I am afraid that my inquiry has offended her.”
“I guess not,” Gerald said, dryly, as if annoyed. “What makes you think so?”
“Merely her manner. And I don’t know that anything is to be gained by such an inquiry.”