ABSTRACT
The vehemence with which Susan Dixon threw herself into occupation could not last for ever. Times of languor and remembrance would come – times when she recurred with a passionate yearning to bygone days, the recollection of which was so vivid and delicious, that it seemed as though it were the reality, and the present bleak bareness the dream. She smiled anew at the magical sweetness of some touch or tone which in memory she felt and heard, and drank the delicious cup of poison, although at the very time she knew what the consequences a of racking pain would be.
