There were exceptions. Now and again, one little outpost
of death had invaded a level spread of turf, much in the manner of
human beings who dislike, and live remote from, their kind.
But it was the personal application of all she saw before her which
tugged at her heartstrings. It made her rage to think that the
little life to which her agony of body had given birth should be
torn from the warmth of her arms to sleep for ever in this unnatural
solitude. It could not be. She despairingly rebelled against the
merciless fate which had overridden her. In her agony, she beat the
stones of the parapet with her hands. Perhaps she believed that in
so doing she would awaken to find her sorrows to have been a horrid
dream. The fact that she did not start from sleep brought home the
grim reality of her griefs. There was no delusion: her baby lay dead
at home; her lover, to whom she had confided her very soul, was to
be married to someone else. There was no escape; biting sorrow held
her in its grip. She was borne down by an overwhelming torrent of
suffering; she flung herself upon the parapet and cried helplessly
aloud. Someone touched her arm.
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