She felt that he laid her, clumsily but gently, upon the sofa; some one sprinkled cold water on her forehead.

Deep down in her soul she hated and despised herself for this weakness before strangers.

She closed her eyes tightly, desiring to conceal not so much the others as herself from her scornful gaze.

She heard some one say something about a cup of tea, and she wanted it suddenly with a desperate, fiery desire, but she would not speak, no, not if they were to torture her with thirst for days and days--to that extent at least she could preserve her independence.
She heard her Aunt Elizabeth say something like: "Poor thing--strain--last week--father--too much." She gathered all her energies together to say "It hasn't been too much.
I'm all right," but they brought her a cup of tea, and before that she succumbed.

She drank it with eager greed, then lay back, her eyes closed, and slowly the bars of hot iron withdrew from her forehead.