I have, it is true, a frame of iron: but such a life would wear it out at length.
I am weary and miserable, and from time to time I feel almost distracted. My state is that of one who has an appointment, and waits, waits, waits, through the hours and through the years, although the time allotted to keep it has long since passed by. I experience the same fever of impatience, the same clutching at my heart, when in my delusion I think I can at last hear his footsteps; the same chill of terror, when for an instant I think he will never come.
All this is very banal, very "missish." Yes, I know, I know. But now and then it is simply beyond my power to keep down, simply overwhelming. For the time assigned to me, the wonderful time of meeting with one whom I love, fled into the past so long, so long ago!
Ah, it has come, that time! It came yesterday. I had already felt it in the air for many a day; it was in Martha's eyes; my own heart told me. And while I yearned for it constantly, yet did I fear it like a sentence of death.
Having returned long after Martha had
