There were some sharp edges to the reminiscence, but I turned the pages while they did their worst, and so cut myself to the heart upon a sharper than them all.

It was in a poem I remembered, a poem whose title pained me into glancing farther.

And see what leapt to meet me from the printed page: "And I,--what I seem to my friend, you see: What I soon shall seem to his love, you guess: What I seem to myself, do you ask of me?
No hero, I confess." True, too true; no hero, indeed; anything in the wide world else! But that I should read it there by the woman's side! And yet, even that was no such coincidence; had we not talked about the poet, had I not implied what Catherine thought of him, what everybody ought to think?
Of a sudden a strange thrill stirred me; sidelong I glanced at my companion.

She had turned her head away; her cheek was deeply dyed.

She knew what I was doing; she might divine my thoughts.