"She's worrying over something, Westcott--do you happen to know what it
is?" the doctor asked him. "It's bad for her. If you can help her about it
in any way--"
The strain between them was becoming unbearable. Every day, when he went in
to sit with her, they would talk about other things--about everything--but
he knew that before her eyes there was that picture of himself up at Scaw
House, and of the years passing--and his soul and everything that was fine
in him, dying.
He saw her growing daily weaker. Sometimes he felt that he must run away
altogether, go up to Scaw House and leave her to die alone; then he knew
that that cruelty at any rate was not in him. One day he thought her brutal
and interfering, another day it seemed that it was he who was the tyrant.
He reminded himself of all the things that she had done for him--all the
things, and he could not grant her this one request.
Then he would ask himself what the devil her right was that she should
order his life in this way?... everyday the struggle grew harder.
The tension could not hold any longer--at last it broke.
IV
One evening they were sitting in silence beside her window. The room was
in dusk and he could just see her white shadow against the dim blue light
beyond the window.
Suddenly she broke down. He could hear her crying, behind her hands.
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