were　the　muffled　windows；　a　great　looking…glass　between　them　repeated　the　vacant　majesty　of　the　bed　and　room。　I　was　not　quite　sure　whether　they　had　locked　the　door；　and　when　I　dared　move；　I　got　up　and　went　to　see。　Alas！　yes：　no　jail　was　ever　more　secure。　Returning；　I　had　to　cross　before　the　looking…glass；　my　fascinated　glance　involuntarily　explored　the　depth　it　revealed。　All　looked　colder　and　darker　in　that　visionary　hollow　than　in　reality：　and　the　strange　little　figure　there　gazing　at　me；　with　a　white　face　and　arms　specking　the　gloom；　and　glittering　eyes　of　fear　moving　where　all　else　was　still；　had　the　effect　of　a　real　spirit：　I　thought　it　like　one　of　the　tiny　phantoms；　half　fairy；　half　imp；　Bessie’s　evening　stories　represented　as　ing　out　of　lone；　ferny　dells　in　moors；　and　appearing　before　the　eyes　of　belated　travellers。　I　returned　to　my　stool。

Superstition　was　with　me　at　that　moment；　but　it　was　not　yet　her　hour　for　plete　victory：　my　blood　was　still　warm；　the　mood　of　the　revolted　slave　was　still　bracing　me　with　its　bitter　vigour；　I　had　to　stem　a　rapid　rush　of　retrospective　thought　before　I　quailed　to　the　dismal　present。

All　John　Reed’s　violent　tyrannies；　all　his　sisters’　proud　indifference；　all　his　mother’s　aversion；　all　the　servants’　partiality；　turned　up　in　my　disturbed　mind　like　a　dark　deposit　in　a　turbid　well。　Why　was　I　always　suffering；　always　browbeaten；　always　accused；　for　ever　condemned？　Why　could　I　never　please？　Why　was　it　useless　to　try　to　win　any　one