The great letters in
which the English version was printed seemed to me larger by the
light of the moon than they had seemed by daylight.
We had to wait for some time in Switzerland. In a locked drawer I
found the casket and a copy of _The Veiled Queen_. I read much in the
book. Every word I found there was in flat contradiction to my own
mode of thought.
Did the shock of this dreadful catastrophe drive Winifred from my
mind? No, nothing could have done that. My soul seemed, as I have
said, to be new-born, and all emotions, passions, and sentiments that
were not connected with her seemed to be shadowy and distant, like
ante-natal dreams. It would be hypocrisy not to confess this frankly,
regardless of the impression against me it may make on the reader's
mind. Yet I had a real affection for my father. In spite of his
extraordinary obliviousness of my very existence till the last year
of his life, I was strongly attached to him, and his death made me
see nothing but his virtues; yet my soul was so filled with my
passion for Winifred as to have but little room for sorrow.
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