This then is the Tragedy which, like some insect in the heart of the
rose, had eaten its way into the romance of Sally Bishop.
For three days after Traill had left her, she broke under the flood
of her despair. For those three days she did not move out of her rooms,
taking just what nourishment there was to be found in the cupboards
where they stored the food for their breakfasts. On the side of her
bed she sometimes sat, biting a dry piece of bread--anything that
she could find--in that unconscious instinct with which the body
prompts the mind for its own preservation. But these meals--if such
they can be called--she took at no stated times. Crusts of bread lay
about on the table, showing how indiscriminately of order she had
fed herself. For two hours together, she would sit in awful silence,
with eyes strained staringly before her. Of tears, there were none.
Sometimes a sob broke through her lips when a sound downstairs
reminded her of him; but no tears accompanied it. It was more like
the complaining cry of some animal in its sleep.
For the first two nights she just flung herself on her bed when the
darkness came. She did not undress. The nights were warm then, or
cold might have driven her between the clothes.
Pages:
405
406
407
408
409
410
411
412
413
414
415
416
417
418
419
420
421
422
423
424
425
426
427
428
429