embarrassment which one at least of us must have felt.
Miss Penclosa's manner was quite the same as usual, and
she expressed no surprise at my having come in spite of
my note. There was nothing in her bearing to show that
yesterday's incident had made any impression upon her,
and so I am inclined to hope that I overrated it.

April 6 (evening). No, no, no, I did not overrate it.
I can no longer attempt to conceal from myself that
this woman has conceived a passion for me. It is
monstrous, but it is true. Again, tonight, I awoke
from the mesmeric trance to find my hand in hers, and
to suffer that odious feeling which urges me to throw
away my honor, my career, every thing, for the sake of
this creature who, as I can plainly see when I am away
from her influence, possesses no single charm upon
earth. But when I am near her, I do not feel this.
She rouses something in me, something evil, something I
had rather not think of. She paralyzes my better
nature, too, at the moment when she stimulates my
worse. Decidedly it is not good for me to be near her.

Last night was worse than before. Instead of flying I
actually sat for some time with my hand in hers talking
over the most intimate subjects with her. We spoke of
Agatha, among other things. What could I have been
dreaming of? Miss Penclosa said that she was
conventional, and I agreed with her. She spoke once or
twice in a disparaging way of her, and I did not
protest. What a creature I have been!