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That is what terrified her: the consciousness that nothing in her life would be continuous, that she would no sooner form friendships (like the present) than relentless fate would thrust her into a new circle. She walked for a mile or more recklessly, close veiled, with swift level footsteps, though her brain was in a whirl and a horrible faintness all the time hovered about her. John did not see her until the last period. Her long incarceration at the convent in Blaye had taught her to be dismissive of her own appearance. If it was not an actual personal lover, it still might be the lover not yet incarnate, not yet perhaps suspected.
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