When I reached a level I kept running; but
something dragged at me. I slowed down to a walk. Never in my life had I
been victim of such sensation. I must flee from something that was
drawing me back. Apparently one side of my mind was unalterably fixed,
while the other was a hurrying conglomeration of flashes of thought,
reception of sensations. I could not get calm.
By and by, almost involuntarily, with a fleeting look backward as if in
expectation of pursuit, I hurried faster on. Action seemed to make my
state less oppressive; it eased the weight upon me. But the farther I
went on, the harder it was to continue. I was turning my back upon love,
happiness, success in life, perhaps on life itself. I was doing that,
but my decision had not been absolute. There seemed no use to go on
farther until I was absolutely sure of myself. I received a clear
warning thought that such work as seemed haunting and driving me could
never be carried out in the mood under which I labored. I hung on to
that thought. Several times I slowed up, then stopped, only to tramp on
again.
At length, as I mounted a low ridge, Linrock lay bright and green before
me, not faraway, and the sight was a conclusive check.
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