Two, three, even four, were grateful; there was still a
long time before he need rise and face the dreaded task, the
horrible four blank slips of paper that had to be filled ere he
might sleep again. But such restfulness was only for a moment; no
sooner had the workhouse bell become silent than he began to toil
in his weary imagination, or else, incapable of that, to vision
fearful hazards of the future. The soft breathing of Amy at his
side, the contact of her warm limbs, often filled him with
intolerable dread. Even now he did not believe that Amy loved him
with the old love, and the suspicion was like a cold weight at
his heart that to retain even her wifely sympathy, her wedded
tenderness, he must achieve the impossible.
The impossible; for he could no longer deceive himself with a
hope of genuine success. If he earned a bare living, that would
be the utmost. And with bare livelihood Amy would not, could not,
be content.
If he were to die a natural death it would be well for all. His
wife and the child would be looked after; they could live with
Mrs Edmund Yule, and certainly it would not be long before Amy
married again, this time a man of whose competency to maintain
her there would be no doubt.
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