Again she indulged in bitter weeping, wetting her pillow with her tears as
she vainly courted sleep.
"He hates me now, I know he does, and will never love me again," she
repeated to herself. "I wish I didn't love him so. Ho said he was sorry he
couldn't give me my liberty, but I don't want it; but he wants to be rid
of me, or he would never have said that; and how unhappy he must be, and
will be all his life, tied to a wife he hates.
"I won't stay here to be a burden and torment to him!" she cried, starting
up with sudden determination and energy. "I love him so dearly that I'll
deliver him from that, even though it will break my heart; for oh, how
_can_ I live without him!"
She considered a moment, and (foolish child) thought it would be an act of
noble self-sacrifice, and also very romantic, to run away and die of a
broken heart, in order to relieve her husband of the burden and torment
she chose to imagine that he considered her.
A folly that was partly the effect of too much reading of sensational
novels, partly of physical ailment, for she was really feverish and ill.
She did not pause to decide where she would go, or to reflect how she
could support herself.
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