NINETEENBLOOD was mighty thick. Mine felt as though it could hardly flow. It was understandable, I thought, that a little girl who had once idolized her mother, only to be rebuffed, unloved, and finally exiled, would come to hate her. But I had hoped that the hatred had long ago changed to disdain. Now I could almost hate myself for my fluttering heart.
Two of my most fortunate capacities were for food and sleep. Very rarely had I been so disturbed that I could not make a good meal; almost never had grief or anxiety cost me a good night’s sleep, although often I had lain awake too joyful to close my eyes. On the night following the arrival of the letter, I heard every toll of the town clock and felt every breath I breathed. During some of these I was dreaming, but knew it all the time. It
