Well, it turned out all
right, for she kept on living, but she pretended to have sharp
pains all over her here and there, and if the pin had been as
lively as a tadpole and wriggled from spot to spot, it could not
have hurt in so many Places.
Of course they blamed me, and I shut myself up more and
more in my Sanctuery. There I lived with the creatures of my
dreams, and forgot for a while that I was only a Sub-Deb, and
that Leila's last year's tennis clothes were being fixed over
for me.
But how true what dear Shakspeare says:
_dreams_,
_Which are the children of an idle brain_.
_Begot of nothing but vain fantasy_.
I loved my dreams, but alas, they were not enough. After a
tortured hour or two at my desk, living in myself the agonies of
my characters, suffering the pangs of the wife with two husbands
and both living, struggling in the water with the children,
fruit of the first union, dying with number two and blowing my
last Bubbles heavenward--after all these emotions, I was done
out.
Jane came in one day and found me prostrate on my couch,
with a light of sufering in my eyes.
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