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She
did not pace to and fro in the comfort of physical movement with
which the caged beast finds a mocking imitation of liberty: long
ago, her physical vigors had been drained under stress of
anguish. Now, she was well-nigh incapable of any bodily
activity. There came not even so much as the feeblest moan from
her lips. The torment was far too racking for such futile
fashion of lamentation. She merely sat there in a posture of
collapse. To all outward seeming, nerveless, emotionless, an
abject creature. Even the eyes, which held so fixedly their gaze
on the window, were quite expressionless. Over them lay a film,
like that which veils the eyes of some dead thing. Only an
occasional languid motion of the lids revealed the life that
remained.
So still the body. Within the soul, fury raged uncontrolled.
For all the desolate calm of outer seeming, the tragedy of her
fate was being acted with frightful vividness there in memory.
In that dreadful remembrance, her spirit was rent asunder anew by
realization of that which had become her portion.


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