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!

Having been many days away from the Girls' Scripture Class, it seemed to
be possible that going back to the school and the teaching might help me
to escape from myself.

Nothing succeeds with me. I found it impossible to instruct the girls as
usual; their stupidity soon reached the limit of my patience--suffocated
me with rage. One of them, a poor, fat, feeble creature, began to cry
when I scolded her. I looked with envy at the tears rolling over her
big round cheeks. If I could only cry, I might perhaps bear my hard fate
with submission.

I walked toward home by a roundabout way; feeling as if want of sleep
was killing me by inches.

In the High Street, I saw Helena; she was posting a letter, and was
not aware that I was near her. Leaving the post-office, she crossed
the street, and narrowly escaped being run over. Suppose the threatened
accident had really taken place--how should I have felt, if it