. .
The hot summer days dragged slowly by.
The Grants did not leave town, and I hesitated to do as my father
suggested, and go myself. I waited, and saw Lucia daily, and hoped
daily to hear the words I thirsted for, but she persistently refused
to say anything of herself or her health or her wishes. I might see
her as often as I liked, go and come to and from her house as I
pleased, but speak of our marriage or allow me any of the privileges
of a fiance she would not.
As the weeks passed the life became intolerable for me. I could not
expect my book to be produced till the autumn. There was no fresh
impetus in my brain toward writing another. All my thoughts centred
now round this woman, whom I saw apparently growing more listless,
languid, and indifferent to myself every day.
The nervous strain told upon me. Night followed night in which I got
no sleep, and which left me with a blinding headache to commence the
day. Gradually these headaches lengthened, till they stretched
throughout the tedious, desultory hours; and one stifling August
afternoon, lying, dizzy with pain, on the couch, I determined to win
an answer from her or cut all the ties, dear and clinging though
they might be, and leave her finally.
To-morrow! What was to-morrow? My brain went round when I tried to
think of the simplest thing.
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