Their conversation had begun under cover of the music which I was making,
and now they were too much engrossed to perceive its discontinuance. The
first sentence I heard seized my attention; my father had closed the book
he was reading, upon his finger, and was leaning back in his chair, as he
used to do when at all angry; his face was a little flushed, and I knew the
fierce and glassy stare which expressed pride, surprise, and wrath.
'Yes, Lady Knollys, there's an animus; I know the spirit you speak in--it
does you no honour,' said my father.
'And I know the spirit _you_ speak in, the spirit of _madness_,' retorted
Cousin Monica, just as much in earnest. 'I can't conceive how you _can_ be
so _demented_, Austin. What has perverted you? are you _blind_?'
'_You_ are, Monica; your own unnatural prejudice--_unnatural_ prejudice,
blinds you. What is it all?--_nothing_. Were I to act as you say, I should
be a _coward_ and a traitor. I see, I _do_ see, all that's real. I'm no
Quixote, to draw my sword on illusions.'
'There should be no halting here. How _can_ you--do you ever _think_? I
wonder if you can breathe.
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