Just such a surging, thrilling flood she had felt in the surgeon's chair when she was a girl and an anesthetic had been given.

But this wave of sensation led to no oblivion, no last soothing intoxication.

Its current beat against her heart until she could have cried out from the mere physical pain, the clamping grip of her trouble.

She withered and grew cold under the torture of it all--the ruthless spoliation of everything which made life worth while or the past endurable.
About an hour after she had gone to bed she heard Eglington's step.

It paused at her door.