The hours of the night had passed Mrs. Travers
by. After flinging herself on her knees, she didn't know why, since she
could think of nothing to pray for, had nothing to invoke, and was too
far gone for such a futile thing as despair, she had remained there till
the sense of exhaustion had grown on her to the point in which she lost
her belief in her power to rise. In a half-sitting attitude, her head
resting against the edge of the couch and her arms flung above her head,
she sank into an indifference, the mere resignation of a worn-out body
and a worn-out mind which often is the only sort of rest that comes to
people who are desperately ill and is welcome enough in a way. The voice
of Jorgenson roused her out of that state. She sat up, aching in every
limb and cold all over.
Jorgenson, behind the door, repeated with lifeless obstinacy:
"Do you see King Tom's watch in there?"
Mrs. Travers got up from the floor. She tottered, snatching at the air,
and found the back of the armchair under her hand.
"Who's there?"
She was also ready to ask: "Where am I?" but she remembered and at once
became the prey of that active dread which had been lying dormant for
a few hours in her uneasy and prostrate body. "What time is it?" she
faltered out.
"Dawn," pronounced the imperturbable voice at the door.
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