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Hichens, Robert Smythe, 1864-1950

"A Spirit in Prison"

It
was brutal to do it. It was brutal. I had earned the right at least to
one thing: I had earned the right to be alone. But you didn't care.
You wouldn't respect my right. You hunted me as you might have hunted
an animal. I tried to escape. But you saw me coming, and you chased
me, and you caught me. I can't get away. You have driven me in here.
And I can't get away from you. You won't even let me be alone."
"I dare not let you be alone to-night."
"Why not? What are you afraid of? What does it matter to you where I
go or what I do? Don't say it matters! Don't dare say that!"
Her voice was fierce now.
"It doesn't matter to anybody, except perhaps a little to Vere and a
very little to Gaspare. It never has really mattered to anybody. I
thought it did once to some one. I thought I knew it did. But I was
wrong. It didn't. It never mattered."
As she spoke an immense, a terrific feeling of desolation poured over
her, as if from above, coming down upon her in the dark. It was like a
flood that stiffened into ice upon her, making her body and her soul
numb for a moment.


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