She performed this journey with sightless eyes
and took little pleasure in the countries she traversed, decked out
though they were in the richest freshness of spring. Her thoughts
followed their course through other countries-strange-looking,
dimly-lighted, pathless lands, in which there was no change of
seasons, but only, as it seemed, a perpetual dreariness of winter. She
had plenty to think about; but it was neither reflexion nor
conscious purpose that filled her mind. Disconnected visions passed
through it, and sudden gleams of memory, of expectation. The past
and the future came and went at their will, but she saw them only in
fitful images, which rose and fell by a logic of their own. It was
extraordinary the things she remembered. Now that she was in the
secret, now that she knew something that so much concerned her and the
eclipse of which had made life resemble an attempt to play whist
with an imperfect pack of cards, the truth of things, their mutual
relations, their meaning, and for the most part their horror, rose
before her with a kind of architectural vastness. She remembered a
thousand trifles; they started to life with the spontaneity of a
shiver.
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