An idiot. A one-ideaed creature. Only the idea was
complex; therefore it was impossible really to say what she wasn't
capable of. This was what made her obscure processes so awful.
She had at times the most amazing perceptions. Who could tell
where her simplicity ended and her cunning began? She had also the
faculty of never forgetting any fact bearing upon her one idea; and
I remembered now that the conversation with me about the will had
produced on her an indelible impression of the Law's surprising
justice. Recalling her naive admiration of the "just" law that
required no "paper" from a sister, I saw her casting loose the
raging fate with a sanctimonious air. And Therese would naturally
give the key of the fencing-room to her dear, virtuous, grateful,
disinterested cousin, to that damned soul with delicate whiskers,
because she would think it just possible that Rita might have
locked the door leading front her room into the hall; whereas there
was no earthly reason, not the slightest likelihood, that she would
bother about the other. Righteousness demanded that the erring
sister should be taken unawares.
All the above is the analysis of one short moment. Images are to
words like light to sound--incomparably swifter.
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