Since then she had been walking with a ghost: the terrible ghost of her illusion. Only she had somehow vivified, colored, substantiated it, by the force of her own great need – as one might breathe a semblance of life into a dear drowned body that she cannot give up for dead. All this came to her with aching distinctness now. She had accused herself of not daring to face the truth but she knew now this was not the case. It was not the truth she feared it was yet another deception. If she could foresee a chance of him saying: ‘Yes, I do not care for you, not at all; it was a mere fancy’, she would put it to the touch, stood up the blow; but she knew he would never say it. He would go on eluding and doubling watching her occasionally, as she watched him in her mind’s eye all the time; and at that game she had the certainty he was to beat her in the end.
The Custom of the Country