For hours Madelina traced the delicate designs with her finger until the pale winter sun finally melted them.
She then fell to pacing her room. From one corner to another, from the window to the passage door, her tiny slippered feet were on the go. All the time she fought the memory of Oliver de Burge, but she might just as well have fought not to breathe.
The effort to forget seemed to take every ounce of her energy. She ate barely enough to sustain life.
She slept only four or five hours a night for, when she slept, she dreamed and when she dreamed, it was of the very man she sought to erase from her mind and heart. So sleep became an enemy.
Lack of sleep and fresh air and little nourishment soon took their toll on her health. Her heart beat far too quickly, her hands trembled and he
