She felt sure there was nothing new the matter--sure that the torrent of words would come sooner or later.
'Mother! why don't you speak to me ?' Janet burst out at last; 'you don't care about my suffering; you are blaming me because I feel--because I am miserable.' 'My child, I am not blaming you--my heart is bleeding for you.

Your head is bad this morning--you have had a bad night.

Let me make you a cup of tea now.

Perhaps you didn't like your breakfast.' 'Yes, that is what you always think, mother.

It is the old story, you think.