Her first impression was that suddenly she had grown very old, and that some one had turned off the sun, and that in consequence the world had naturally grown cold and dark.

She could not see why the two hundred and forty-nine expected her to keep on doing exactly the same things she had been doing with delight for six months, and indeed for the last six years.

Why could they not see that no longer was there any pleasure in them?
She would have written and told Latimer that she found she loved him very dearly if in her mind there had not arisen a fearful doubt.

Suppose his letter was not quite honest?
He said that he would always love her, but how could she now know that?
Why might not this letter be only his way of withdrawing from a position which he wished to abandon, from which, perhaps, he was even glad to escape?
Were this true, and she wrote and said all those things that were in her heart, that now she knew were true, might she not hold him to her against his will?
The love that once he had for her might no longer exist, and if, in her turn, she told him she loved him and had always loved him, might he not in some mistaken spirit of chivalry feel it was his duty to pretend to care?
Her cheeks burned at the thought.

It was intolerable.