She sat again in the chair from which she had risen, and let her head lie back.

Her vitality was at a low ebb; the movement of indignation against the cruelty which was wrecking her life had passed and left behind it a weary indifference.
Happily she need not think yet.

There were still some hours of respite before her; there was the night to give her strength.

The daylight was a burden; it must be borne with what patience she could summon.

But she longed for the time of sacred silence.
To a spirit capable of high exaltations, the hour of lassitude is a foretaste of the impotence of death.