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Yet what had been the strain that she had been supporting, that now
suddenly she began to feel too much? The strain of a loss. Time should
have eased it. But had Time eased it, or only lengthened the period
during which she had been forced to carry her load? People ought to
get accustomed to things. She knew that it is supposed by many that
the human body, the human mind, the human heart can get accustomed--by
which is apparently meant can cease passionately and instinctively to
strive to repel--can get accustomed to anything. Well she could not.
Never could she get accustomed to the loss of love, of man's love. The
whole world might proclaim its proverbs. For her they had no truth.
For her--and for how many other silent women!
And now suddenly she felt that for years she had been struggling, and
that the struggle had told upon her far more than she had ever
suspected. Nothing must be added to her burden or she would sink down.
The dust would cover her. She would be as nothing--or she would be as
something terrible, nameless.


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