What the old woman could not see, because it
was too close to her own experience, was that Mary had given herself
heart and soul to a man she could never have, the only man that she
would ever love; and without him all life seemed but a mockery of
hope. There was no longer any reason to live, nor did she wish to find
one. And so she had resolved to die, death being the only comfort she
could see on the black horizon of her ravaged world.
Her mother put her to bed on that second night, to which she consented
only because it was less troublesome than to refuse. And whether she
slept at all the woman could not have said, for in the morning she lay
exactly as she had before, hands at her sides, staring blankly at some
fixed point above her. Again she would not eat, and rising, drank a
little water only because her throat felt dry and uncomfortable.
But as the third morning wore on, the young girl began to show signs
of agitation, as it recalling some unpleasant fact that interfered
with her sullen wish to die. All at once she stood up from the chair,
pulling the hair at her temples and groaning angrily.
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