She thought: "I can go through worse
nights than this. One night, some time in the future, either he will
really be dying or I shall. This night is nothing." And she held his
hand and sat in her old place on his bed. The room was chilly. She
decided that in five minutes she would light the gas-stove, and also
make some tea with the spirit-lamp. She would have tea whether he
still refused or not. His watch on the night-table showed half-past
two. In about an hour the dawn would be commencing. She felt that she
had reserves of force against any contingency, against any nervous
strain.
Then he said, "I say, Rachel."
He was too ill to call her "Louise."
"I shall make some tea soon," she answered.
He went on: "You remember about that missing money--I mean before
auntie died. You remember--"
"Don't talk about that, dear," she interrupted him eagerly. "Why
should you bother about that now?"
In one instant those apparently exhaustless reserves of moral force
seemed to have ebbed away. She had imagined herself equal to any
contingency, and now there loomed a contingency which made her quail.
"I've got to talk about that," he said in his weak and desperate
voice. His bruised head was hollowed into the pillow, and he stared
monotonously at the ceiling, upon which the paper screen of the gas
threw a great trembling shadow.
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