lines,andregularly,astheclockstrucknine,hesaid:“Shallwehavealittlegame?”Berthafetchedthecardswhilehearrangedthechairs.Theyplayedsixhands.Edwardaddedupthescoreandchuckledwhenhewon.Berthaputthecardsaway,herhusbandreplacedthechairsandsoitwentonnightafternight,automatically.
Berthawasseizedwiththeintenserestlessnessofutterboredom.Shewouldwalkupanddownherroominafeverofalmostphysicalagony.Shewouldsitatthepiano,andceaseplayingafterhalf-a-dozenbars—musicseemedasfutileaseverythingelseshehaddoneeverythingsooften.Shetriedtoread,butcouldhardlybringherselftobeginanewvolume,andtheverysightoftheprintedpageswasdistasteful:theworksofinformationtoldherthingsshedidnotwanttoknow,thenovelsrelateddeedsofpersonsinwhomshetooknointerest.Shereadafewpagesandthrewdownthebookindisgust.Thenshewentoutagain—anythingseemedpreferabletowhatsheactuallywasdoing—shewalkedrapidly,butthemotion,thecountry,theveryatmosphereabouther,werewearisomeandalmostimmediatelyshereturned.Berthawasforcedtotakethesamewalksdayafterdayandthedesertedroads,thetrees,thehedges,thefields,impressedthemselvesonhermindwithadismalinsistency.Thenshewasdriventogooutmerelyforexercise,andwalkedacertainnumberofmiles,tryingtogetthemdonequickly.Thewindsoftheearlyyearblewthatseasonmorepersistentlythanever,andtheyimpededhersteps,andchilledhertothebone.
SometimesBerthapaidvisits,andtherestraintshehadtoputuponherselfrelievedherforthemoment,butnosoonerwasthedoorclosedbehindherthanshefeltmoredesperatelyboredthanever.
Yearningsuddenlyforsociety,shewouldsendoutinvitationsforsomefunctionthenfeltitinexpressiblyirksometomakepreparations,andsheloathedandabhorredherguests.Foralongtimesherefusedtoseeanyone,protestingherfeeblehealthandsometimesinthesolitudeshethoughtshewouldgomad.Sheturnedtoprayerastheonlyrefugeofthosewhocannotact,butsheonlyhalfbelieved,andtheref