Louisa Stark stared at the
sewed sleeves. "What does this mean?" she asked herself. She
examined the sewing carefully; the stitches were small, and even,
and firm, of black silk.
She looked around the room. On the stand beside the bed was
something which she had not noticed before: a little old-fashioned
work-box with a picture of a little boy in a pinafore on the top.
Beside this work-box lay, as if just laid down by the user, a spool
of black silk, a pair of scissors, and a large steel thimble with a
hole in the top, after an old style. Louisa stared at these, then
at the sleeves of her dress. She moved toward the door. For a
moment she thought that this was something legitimate about which
she might demand information; then she became doubtful. Suppose
that work-box had been there all the time; suppose she had
forgotten; suppose she herself had done this absurd thing, or
suppose that she had not, what was to hinder the others from
thinking so; what was to hinder a doubt being cast upon her own
memory and reasoning powers?
Louisa Stark had been on the verge of a nervous breakdown in spite
of her iron constitution and her great will power.
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