She insisted that she was not complaining, that it was her deep and tender love for her husband that made her suffer so.

"But it is killing me, it is killing me," she said, and one who saw her could well believe it.

And if the distress and the great strain upon her nerves had kept on it certainly would have made her ill, if not have actually ended her life with a nervous collapse.
The friend in whom she confided sat quietly and heard her through.

She let her pour herself out to the very finish until she stopped because there was nothing more to say.

Then, by means of a series of gentle, well-adapted questions, she drew from the wife a recognition--for the first time--of the fact that she really did nothing whatever for her husband and expected him to do everything for her.