Hers was the kind of penitence which is forced by sheer
stress of circumstances on a nature which resents any form of
humiliation; she could not abandon herself to unreserved grief
for what she had done or omitted, and the sense of this defect
made a great part of her affliction. When her husband lay in mute
lethargy, she thought only of her dead child, and mourned the
loss; but his delirious utterances constrained her to break from
that bittersweet preoccupation, to confuse her mourning with
self-reproach and with fears.
Though unconsciously, he was addressing her: 'I can do no more,
Amy. My brain seems to be worn out; I can't compose, I can't even
think. Look! I have been sitting here for hours, and I have done
only that little bit, half a dozen lines. Such poor stuff too! I
should burn it, only I can't afford. I must do my regular
quantity every day, no matter what it is.'
The nurse, who was present when he talked in this way, looked to
Amy for an explanation.
'My husband is an author,' Amy answered. 'Not long ago he was
obliged to write when he was ill and ought to have been resting.
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