Esther’s Narrative

           ItmatterslittlenowhowmuchIthoughtofmylivingmotherwhohadtoldmeevermoretoconsiderherdead.Icouldnotventuretoapproachherortocommunicatewithherinwriting,formysenseoftheperilinwhichherlifewaspassedwasonlytobeequalledbymyfearsofincreasingit.Knowingthatmymereexistenceasalivingcreaturewasanunforeseendangerinherway,IcouldnotalwaysconquerthatterrorofmyselfwhichhadseizedmewhenIfirstknewthesecret.AtnotimedidIdaretoutterhername.IfeltasifIdidnotevendaretohearit.Iftheconversationanywhere,whenIwaspresent,tookthatdirection,asitsometimesnaturallydid,Itriednottohear:Imentallycounted,repeatedsomethingthatIknew,orwentoutoftheroom.IamconsciousnowthatIoftendidthesethingswhentherecanhavebeennodangerofherbeingspokenof,butIdidtheminthedreadIhadofhearinganythingthatmightleadtoherbetrayal,andtoherbetrayalthroughme.ItmatterslittlenowhowoftenIrecalledthetonesofmymother’svoice,wonderedwhetherIshouldeverhearitagainasIsolongedtodo,andthoughthowstrangeanddesolateitwasthatitshouldbesonewtome.ItmatterslittlethatIwatchedforeverypublicmentionofmymother’sname;thatIpassedandrepassedthedoorofherhouseintown,lovingit,butafraidtolookatit;thatIoncesatinthetheatrewhenmymotherwasthereandsawme,andwhenweweresowideasunderbeforethegreatcompanyofalldegreesthatanylinkorconfidencebetweenusseemedadream.Itisall,allover.

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