Mary sat, where she always sat when she was unhappy, inside the wardrobe with her head amongst the clothes.

They in some way comforted her; she was not so lonely with them, nor did she feel so strongly the empty distances of the long room, the white light of the window-frames, nor the mysterious secrecy of the high elms knocking their heads together in the garden outside.
She had a fit of hysterical crying, biting the hanging clothes between her teeth, feeling suddenly sick and tired and exhausted, with flaming eyes and a dry, parched throat.

Why had she ever done such a thing, she loving Jeremy as she did?
Would he ever forgive her?
No, never; she saw that in his face.

Perhaps he would--if he found Hamlet quickly and came back.

Perhaps Hamlet never would be found.