Attack, real attack, from him, as he would conduct it was what she above all dreaded; she was so far from sure that under that experience she mightn't drop into some depth of weakness, mightn't show him some shortest way with her that he would know how to use again.

Therefore, since she had given him, as yet, no moment's pretext for pretending to her that she had either lost faith or suffered by a feather's weight in happiness, she left him, it was easy to reason, with an immense advantage for all waiting and all tension.

She wished him, for the present, to "make up" to her for nothing.

Who could say to what making-up might lead, into what consenting or pretending or destroying blindness it might plunge her?
She loved him too helplessly, still, to dare to open the door, by an inch, to his treating her as if either of them had wronged the other.
Something or somebody--and who, at this, which of them all ?--would inevitably, would in the gust of momentary selfishness, be sacrificed to that; whereas what she intelligently needed was to know where she was going.

Knowledge, knowledge, was a fascination as well as a fear; and a part, precisely, of the strangeness of this juncture was the way her apprehension that he would break out to her with some merely general profession was mixed with her dire need to forgive him, to reassure him, to respond to him, on no ground that she didn't fully measure.