If love had
been her only affliction she would have been grateful for her society
and amusing chatter, for they had much in common. But in the
circumstances it was unthinkable. Not only was she terrified once
more by the prospect of being "cured," but her shattered nerves
demanded far more stimulation and tranquilizing than these small
daily doses of brandy afforded.
Her will was in no way affected. She controlled even her nerves in
Sally's presence, escaped from it twice a day under pretext of taking
a nap, and went upstairs immediately after dinner. She had a large
room at the back of the house where she could pace up and down unheard.
She pretended to be amiable and resigned, played battledoor and
shuttlecock in the hall, or on the lawn when the weather permitted,
sang in the evenings with Sally and Harold, and affected not to
notice that she was locked in at night. She refused to drive, as she
would have found sitting for any length of time unendurable, but she
was glad to take long walks even in the rain--and was piloted away
from the town and the railroad.
Sally wrote jubilant letters to Dr. Talbot, who thought it best to
stay away. The servants were told that Mrs. Talbot was recovering
from an illness and suspected nothing.
It lasted two weeks.
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