She ate still less, and kept
herself up in Society with punch in the afternoon and champagne at
night. Only in the solitude of her room did she give way briefly to
excoriated nerves; but the source of her once ready tears seemed dry.
There are more scientific terms for her condition these days, but she
was poisoned by love and despair. Her collapse was only a matter of
time.
Dr. Talbot knew nothing about psychology but he knew a good deal
about consumption. He had also arrested it in its earlier stages more
than once. He plied Madeleine with the good old remedies: eggnog, a
raw egg in a glass of sherry, port wine, mellow Bourbon whiskey and
cream. She had no desire to recover and he stood over her while she
drank his potions lest she pour them down the washstand; and some
measure of her strength returned. She fainted no more and her cough
disappeared. The stimulants gave her color and her figure began to
fill out again. But her thoughts, save when muddled by her tonics,
never wandered from Masters for a moment.
The longing to hear from him grew uncontrollable with her returning
vitality. She had hoped that he would break his promise and write to
her once at least. He knew her too well not to measure the extent of
her sufferings, and common humanity would have justified him.
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