” She was silent for a time, with her nose on the pillow, and that brought her to: “What’s the good of pretending? “I love him,” she said aloud to the dim forms of her room, and repeated it, and went on to imagine herself doing acts of tragically dog-like devotion to the biologist, who, for the purposes of the drama, remained entirely unconscious of and indifferent to her proceedings. "Do they treat you ill?" asked her son. “What have you done to yourself?” he muttered. And now, my love," she added, with a relenting look, "I'm content to make up our quarrel. This chap's recovery all depends upon the care he receives.
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