Her only feelings were infinite self-pity and a dull smouldering hatred of all others in the world.

A doctor would have bidden her take to bed, as one in danger of grave illness.

She bore through it without change in her habits, and in time the strange lethargy passed.
Scawthorne came to the bar frequently.

He remarked often on her look of suffering, and urged a holiday.

At length, near the end of July, he invited her to go up the river with him on the coming Bank-holiday.
Clara consented, though aware that her presence would be more than ever necessary at the bar on the day of much drinking.