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How often Emile had told her not to trust her imagination! She would
heed him now. She knew nothing. She did not even know for certain that
Vere's flush, Vere's abrupt hesitation at lunch, were a betrayal of
the child's secret.
But that she would find out.
Again the fierce curiosity besieged and took possession of her. After
all, she was a mother. A mother had rights. Surely she had a right to
know what another knew of her child.
"I will ask Vere," she said to herself.
Once before she had said to herself that she would do that, and she
had not done it. She had felt that to do it would be a humiliation.
But now she was resolved to do it, for she knew more of her own
condition and was more afraid of herself. She began to feel like one
who has undergone a prolonged strain of work, who believes that it has
not been too great and has been capably supported, and who suddenly is
aware of a yielding, of a downward and outward movement, like a wide
and spreading disintegration, in which brain, nerves, the whole body
are involved.


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