In securing her dress she noticed her husband's carefully preserved clothing lining one wall.

She gathered it in an armload and carried it to the swamp.

Piece by piece she pitched into the green maw of the quagmire all those articles she had dusted carefully and fought moths from for years, and stood watching as it slowly sucked them down.

She went back to her room and gathered every scrap that had in any way belonged to Robert Comstock, excepting his gun and revolver, and threw it into the swamp.

Then for the first time she set her door wide open.
She was too weary now to do more, but an urging unrest drove her.