Only her
FEELING seemed to remain. She could hardly bear it; why is it that
you can feel with that intolerably fecund kind of ache while
THOUGHTS refuse to come?
She finally gave it up, and rose and dressed. It was one of those
mornings when clothes seem possessed of some demon so that they
refuse to go on right. At breakfast she was unwontedly cross, and
"talked back" to Aunt Nettie so that mother made her apologize. At
that moment she hated Aunt Nettie, and even almost disliked mother.
Then she discovered that Nicky, her little brother, had
mischievously hidden her strap of books and, all of a sudden, she
did an unheard-of thing: she slapped him! Nicky was so astonished he
didn't cry; he didn't even run and tell mother, but Missy, seeing
that hurt, bewildered look on his face, felt greater remorse than
any punishment could have evoked. She loved Nicky dearly; how could
she have done such a thing? But she remembered having read that Poe
and Byron and other geniuses often got irritable when in creative
mood. Perhaps that was it. The reflection brought a certain
consolation.
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