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he contrary direction to Millcote; a road I had never travelled; but often noticed; and wondered where it led: thither I bent my steps。 No reflection was to be allowed now: not one glance was to be cast back; not even one forward。 Not one thought was to be given either to the past or the future。 The first was a page so heavenly sweet— so deadly sad—that to read one line of it would dissolve my courage and break down my energy。 The last was an awful blank: something like the world when the deluge was gone by。
I skirted fields; and hedges; and lanes till after sunrise。 I believe it was a lovely summer morning: I know my shoes; which I had put on when I left the house; were soon wet with dew。 But I looked neither to rising sun; nor smiling sky; nor wakening nature。 He who is taken out to pass through a fair scene to the scaffold; thinks not of the flowers that smile on his road; but of the block and axe…edge; of the disseverment of bone and vein; of the grave gaping at the end: and I thought of drear flight and homeless wandering—and oh! with agony I thought of what I left。 I could not help it。 I thought of him now—in his room—watching the sunrise; hoping I should soon e to say I would stay with him and be his。 I longed to be his; I panted to return: it was not too late; I could yet spare him the bitter pang of bereavement。 As yet my flight; I was sure; was undiscovered。 I could go back and be his forter—his pride; his redeemer from misery; perhaps from ruin。 Oh; that fear of his self…abandonment—far worse than my abandonment—how it goaded me! It was a barbed arrow…head in my breast; it tore me when I tried to extract it; it sickened me when remembrance thrust it farther in。 Birds began singing in brake and copse: birds were faithful to their mates; birds were emble
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