Explore "The Swing of the Pendulum" by Adriana Spadoni on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
Jean never knew by what power she left the train at the right station, nor how she sat as usual for a few moments on Martha's bed and told her of the meeting. She had no memory of kissing Martha good-night nor coming to her own room.
But she must have done these things, because another day was creeping out of the east, and she still sat by the window, trying to think, but the motive power of her brain was dead. There was no explanation, no reason, no wonder at it. Analysis and explanation were the pipings of crickets, extinguished in a crash of thunder. There was only the thing itself. She loved Gregory Allen with a love that she had not known existed. It was a terrific wave, crushing upon her from the outside. It was so far beyond her will or control, that the thought of beating it back was drowned in its own flood.