He was himself deceived, and she knew it.

Beatrice might, indeed, have died long ago.

She could not tell.

But as she sought in the recesses of his mind, she saw that he had no certainty of it, she saw the black presentiment between him and the image, for she could see the image too.

She saw the rival she already hated, not receiving a vision of the reality, but perceiving it through his mind, as it had always appeared to him.