a monster."

She rose, pushed her chair away without hurry, and walked out of the
room with something like the care of a man who is afraid of showing
that he has taken more wine than usual. She turned the keys inside her
dressing-room doors, and sat down for some time looking pale and quiet
as when she was leaving the breakfast-room. Even in the moments after
reading the poisonous letter she had hardly had more cruel sensations
than now; for emotion was at the acute point, where it is not
distinguishable from sensation. Deronda unlike what she had believed
him to be, was an image which affected her as a hideous apparition
would have done, quite apart from the way in which it was produced. It
had taken hold of her as pain before she could consider whether it were
fiction or truth; and further to hinder her power of resistance came
the sudden perception, how very slight were the grounds of her faith in
Deronda--how little she knew of his life--how childish she had been in
her confidence. His rebukes and his severity to her began to seem
odious, along with all the poetry and lofty doctrine in the world,
whatever it might be; and the grave beauty of his face seemed the most
unpleasant mask that the common habits of men could put on.

All this went on in her with the rapidity of a sick dream; and her
start into resistance was very much like a waking. Suddenly from out
the gray sombre morning there came a stream of sunshine, wrapping her
in warmth and light where she sat in stony stillness. She moved gently
and looked round her--there was a world outside this bad dream, and the
dream proved nothing; she rose, stretching her arms upward and clasping
her hands with her habitual attitude when she was seeking relief from
oppressive feeling, and walked about the room in this flood of sunbeams.

"It is not true! What does it matter whether _he_ believes it or not?"
This is what she repeated to herself--but this was not her faith come
back again; it was only the desperate cry of faith, finding suffocation
intolerable. And how could she go on through the day in this state?
With one of her impetuous alternations, her imagination flew to wild
actions by which she would convince herself of what she wished: she
would go to Lady Mallinger and question her about Mirah; she would
write to Deronda and upbraid him with making the world all false and
wicked and hopeless to her--to him she dared pour out all the bitter
indignation of her hear