That her husband was not touching her anymore grew to be like a disease, something to be cured. Jack had got into one of the pens at the north side of the chapel. “There is no—Good God!” he exclaimed. It occurred to her that it was absurd and wrong to be so continuously thinking of one engrossing topic, and she made a strenuous effort to force her mind to other questions. Her life hangs upon a thread, and this may snap it. The spring can't be opened on this side.
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