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Rh The woman she had petted and called "I"— The woman she had pitied, and at last Commiserated for the most abject And persecuted of all womankind,— Could it be she that had sought out the way To measure and thereby to quench in her The woman's fear—the fear of her not fearing? A nervous little laugh that lost itself, Like logic in a dream, fluttered her thoughts An instant there that ever she should ask What she might then have told so easily— So easily that Annandale had frowned, Had he been given wholly to be told The truth of what had never been before So passionately, so inevitably Confessed. For she could see from where she sat The sheets that he had bound up like a book And covered with red leather; and her eyes Could see between the pages of the book, Though her eyes, like them, were closed. And she could read As well as if she had them in her hand, What he had written on them long ago,— Six years ago, when he was waiting for her. She might as well have said that she could see The man himself, as once he would have looked