Priscilla had disappeared from the boudoir. But the dove still kept
her desolate perch on the peak of the attic window.
XIX. ZENOBIA'S DRAWING-ROOM
The remainder of the day, so far as I was concerned, was spent in
meditating on these recent incidents. I contrived, and alternately
rejected, innumerable methods of accounting for the presence of
Zenobia and Priscilla, and the connection of Westervelt with both.
It must be owned, too, that I had a keen, revengeful sense of the
insult inflicted by Zenobia's scornful recognition, and more
particularly by her letting down the curtain; as if such were the
proper barrier to be interposed between a character like hers and a
perceptive faculty like mine. For, was mine a mere vulgar curiosity?
Zenobia should have known me better than to suppose it. She should
have been able to appreciate that quality of the intellect and the
heart which impelled me (often against my own will, and to the
detriment of my own comfort) to live in other lives, and to
endeavor--by generous sympathies, by delicate intuitions, by taking
note of things too slight for record, and by bringing my human spirit
into manifold accordance with the companions whom God assigned me--to
learn the secret which was hidden even from themselves.
Of all possible observers, methought a woman like Zenobia and a man
like Hollingsworth should have selected me. And now when the event
has long been past, I retain the same opinion of my fitness for the
office.
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