It is one of their misfortunes, one of
the many necessities which blunt feeling, which balk reconciliation,
which enhance the risks of dialogue at best semi-articulate.
Clara, having uttered the rancour which had so long poisoned her
mind, straightway crossed the street and entered the house where she
was lodging. She had just returned from making several applications
for employment--futile, as so many were likely to be, if she
persevered in her search for a better place than the last. The wages
due to her for the present week she had of course sacrificed; her
purchases of clothing--essential and superfluous--had left only
a small sum out of her earnings. Food, fortunately, would cost her
little; the difficulty, indeed, was to eat anything at all.
She was exhausted after her long walk, and the scene with Sidney had
made her tremulous. In thrusting open the windows, as soon as she
entered, she broke a pane which was already cracked; the glass cut
into her palm, and blood streamed forth. For a moment she watched
the red drops falling to the floor, then began to sob miserably,
almost as a child might have done. The exertion necessary for
binding the wound seemed beyond her strength; sobbing and moaning,
she stood in the same attitude until the blood began to congeal.
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