_"Down, pale ghost!
What doest thou here?
The sky is cloudless overhead,
The stream runs clear._
_"I drowned thee, ghost,
In a river of bitter brine:
With whatever face thou risest up,
Meet thou not mine!_
_"Back, poor ghost!
Dead of thy own decay
Let the dead bury their dead!
I go my way."_
While she was dressing for it, the evening party ceased to be terrible
even in Christian's imagination. She kept thinking over and over the
talk she had had with Dr. Grey; what he had said, and what she had
said, of which she was a little ashamed that her impetuous impulse had
faded. Yet why? Why should she not speak out her heart to her own
husband? It began to be less difficult to do; for, though he did not
answer much, he never misunderstood her, never responded with those
sharp, cold, altogether wide-of-the-mark observations which, in talking
with Miss Gascoigne or Miss Grey, made her feel that they and she
looked at things from points of view as opposite as the poles.
"They can't help that; neither, I am sure, can I," she often thought.
And yet how, thus diverse, they should all live under the same roof
together for months and years to come, was more than Christian could
conceive.
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