It was easy to pretend I was overcome simply by a combination of hunger and the emotions of the day, but we both knew my fainting fit was caused by something else. He was simply puzzled and desperately anxious; I was riven by an anguish so great I would wish it on no one – and yet I know that Oxford child may one day face the same dilemma as I face.
To tell or not to tell? No matter how much I pace my room and try to argue my way out of it, the answer must be to tell. The next question is how: do I kneel before him, like a penitent to a father confessor, and spell it out, word by word, euphemism by euphemism? That way I would know his reaction was truthful in its spontaneity. If I wrote him a letter, I would not see his face as he read it.
If only I had someone to advise me. Beatrice! She would tell me to say nothing. But that would be to marry under false pretences.
The more I pace, the less I know.
And then I hear voices.