She had wanted to see herself. She had thought that
only her clothes stood in the way. If we could but see ourselves, as in
some magic mirror? All the garments usage and education has dressed us
up in laid aside. What was she underneath her artificial niceties, her
prim moralities, her laboriously acquired restraints, her unconscious
pretences and hypocrisies? She changed her clothes for a loose robe, and
putting out the light drew back the curtains. The moon peeped in over
the top of the tall pines, but it only stared at her, indifferent. It
seemed to be looking for somebody else.
Suddenly, and intensely to her own surprise, she fell into a passionate
fit of weeping. There was no reason for it, and it was altogether so
unlike her. But for quite a while she was unable to control it.
Gradually, and of their own accord, her sobs lessened, and she was able
to wipe her eyes and take stock of herself in the long glass. She
wondered for the moment whether it was really her own reflection that she
saw there or that of some ghostly image of her mother.
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