And so, though her strength was worn threadbare through perpetual strain, she clung to it still.

If only--oh, if only--Guy would write! If he should be ill--if he should fail her--she felt that it would be the end of everything.

For nothing else mattered.
She did not greatly wish to go to the Hunt Ball that year.

She felt utterly out of tune with all gaiety.

But she could think of no decent excuse for remaining away.