The fever that then
sustained her was much the same as she used to know before she had
thoroughly accustomed herself to appearing in front of an audience;
it exalted all her faculties, gifted her with a remarkable
self-consciousness. It was all very well as long as there was need
of it, but why did it afflict her in this torturing form now that
she desired to rest, to think of what she had gained, of what hope
she might reasonably nourish? The purely selfish project which, in
her desperation, had seemed the only resource remaining to her
against a life of intolerable desolateness, was taking hold upon her
in a way she could not understand. Had she not already made a
discovery that surpassed all expectation? Sidney Kirkwood was not
bound to another woman; why could she not accept that as so much
clear gain, and deliberate as to her next step? She had been fully
prepared for the opposite state of things, prepared to strive
against any odds, to defy all probabilities, all restraints; why not
thank her fortune and plot collectedly now that the chances were so
much improved?
But from the beginning of her interview with him, Clara knew that
something more entered into her designs on Sidney than a cold
self-interest.
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