The thought of her in the next room, the thought that she might even hear me as I walked, the remembrance of my churlishness and that I must continue to practise the same ungrateful course or be dishonoured, put me beside my reason.

I stood like a man between Scylla and Charybdis: _What must she think of me_?
was my one thought that softened me continually into weakness.

_What is to become of us_?
the other which steeled me again to resolution.

This was my first night of wakefulness and divided counsels, of which I was now to pass many, pacing like a madman, sometimes weeping like a childish boy, sometimes praying (I would fain hope) like a Christian.
But prayer is not very difficult, and the hitch comes in practice.

In her presence, and above all if I allowed any beginning of familiarity, I found I had very little command of what should follow.