“Miss Jessel. You don’t believe me?” I pressed.
She turned right and left in her distress. “How can you be sure?”
This drew from me, in the state of my nerves, a flash of impatience. “Then ask Flora—she’s sure!” But I had no sooner spoken than I caught myself up. “No, for God’s sake, don’t!” She’ll say she isn’t—she’ll lie!”
Mrs. Grose was not too bewildered instinctively to protest. “Ah, how can you?”
“Because I’m clear. Flora doesn’t want me to know.”
“It’s only then to spare you.”
“No, no—there are depths, depths! The more I go over it, the more I see in it, and the more I see in it, the more I fear. I don’t know what I don’t see—what I don’t fear!”
Mrs. Grose tried to keep up with me. “You mean you’re afraid of seeing her again?”
“Oh, no; that’s nothing—now!” Then I explained. “It’s of not seeing her.”
But my companion only looked wan. “I don’t understand you.”
“Why, it’s that the child may keep it up—and that the child assuredly will—without my knowing it.”
