But that which especially distressed her now was that she had not made a
_confidante_ of Hubertine. Could she only have asked her what she wished
to know, no doubt the latter with a word would have explained the whole
mystery to her. Then it seemed to her as if the mere fact of speaking to
someone of her trouble would have cured her. But the secret had become
too weighty; to reveal it would be more than she could bear, for the
shame would be too great. She became quite artful for the moment,
affected an air of calmness, when in the depths of her soul a tempest
was raging. If asked why she was so pre-occupied, she lifted her
eyes with a look of surprise as she replied that she was thinking of
something. Seated before the working-frame, her hands mechanically
drawing the needle back and forth, very quiet to all outward appearance,
she was, from morning till evening, distracted by one thought. To be
loved! To be loved! And for herself, on her side, was she in love? This
was still an obscure question, to which, in her inexperience, she found
no answer. She repeated it so constantly that at last it made her giddy,
the words lost all their usual meaning, and everything seemed to be in a
whirl, which carried her away.
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