She was not actually
ill, but there were times when she longed intensely, passionately, for
death. She was weak, physically and mentally, after the long strain.
Courage and endurance had alike given way at last. She had no strength
with which to face what lay before her.
So far as outward circumstances went, she was in good hands. Curtis
watched over her with a care that never flagged, and the innkeeper's
wife from Wallarroo, large and slow and patient, was her constant
attendant. But neither of them could touch or in any way soothe the
perpetual pain that throbbed night and day in the girl's heart, giving
her no rest.
She left her bed at length after many days, but it was only to wander
aimlessly about the house, lacking the energy to employ herself. Her
nerves were quieter, but she still started at any sudden sound, and
would sit as one listening yet dreading to hear. Her husband's name
never passed her lips, and Curtis never made the vaguest reference to
him. He knew that sooner or later a change would come, that the long
suffering that lined her face must draw at last to a climax; but he
would do nothing to hasten it. He believed that Nature would eventually
find her own remedy.
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