human
It's queer how quickly one sees things--all in a flash. I'd only time to draw in my breath before the door of the room was closed, yet I kept the impression, as one goes on seeing the sun with one's eyes shut. Now, _could_ I have imagined the whole thing? I _did_ imagine things at night in my cell, but I _knew_ they weren't there. They never seemed as real as this.
gpt
I'm frightened. I caught H.S. dropping something from a tiny bottle into the glass of milk on the tray I was getting ready to take upstairs. I'd turned my back to fetch a bunch of violets H.S. had brought in for me to put with the breakfast. I don't know if she knew I caught her, but she said she put phosferine for a tonic into the milk twice a week, and asked if I approved. Perhaps I oughtn't to say I '_caught_' her. Perhaps it's all right. But if we had a cat in the house I'd have tried to make it drink the milk. I tasted it, and there was a faint bitter tang, yet phosferine would give that. I dared not drink more, because if anything were wrong, and I were ill or died, I couldn't protect _her_. But I poured out the milk and got fresh, in another glass, when I was sure H.S. was back in her study with the door shut. This can't go on. If anything is wrong, I mayn't be able to save _her_. And the fear is getting on my nerves. Yet I can't bear to give the poor child a warning. She has enough to worry about. All day this horrid thought has been in my head. Was _I_ chosen because if _she_ died, I could be blamed--a prison bird, with a black heart too full of evil to be reclaimed by kindness? If my darling girl will give me the name of the man who loves her and where he is, I'll make some excuse to get a day off--perhaps to meet my brother Larry--and tell her lover what has been going on.