Why not to her!--oh, why not to her?
Her heart was dry with longing and grief; her eyes were red for want of sleep.

There were strange numb moments when she felt nothing, and could hardly remember why she was in London.

And then would come the sudden smart of reviving consciousness--the terrible returns of an anguish, under which her whole being trembled.

And always, at the back of everything, the dull thought--'I always knew it--I knew he would die!'-- recurring again and again; only to be dashed away by a protest no less persistent--'No, no! He is _not dead!--not dead!_ In a fortnight--she said so--there'll be news--they'll have found him.

Then he'll be recovering--and prisoners are allowed to write.