I had succeeded, I
believe, before my aunt Gary and Miss Pinshon came in. The two
stood looking at me; my aunt in some consternation, my
governess reserving any expression of what she thought. I
fancied she did not trust my honesty. Another time I might
have made an effort to right myself in her opinion; but I was
past that and everything now. It was decided by my aunt that I
had better keep my bed as long as I felt like doing so.
So I lay there during the long hours of that day. I was glad
to be still, to keep out of the way in a corner, to hear
little and see nothing of what was going on; my own small
world of thoughts was enough to keep me busy. I grew utterly
weary at last of thinking, and gave it up, so far as I could;
submitting passively, in a state of pain sometimes dull and
sometimes acute, to what I had no power to change or remedy.
But my father had, I thought; and at those times my longing
was unspeakable to see him. I was very quiet all that day, I
believe, in spite of the rage of wishes and sorrows within me;
but it was not to be expected I should gain strength.
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