Harriet's ailments had all at once
taken such a decided turn for the worse--her fits becoming
incessant, and other disorders traceable to the same source suddenly
taking hold upon her--that Julian had obtained her admission to
the hospital, where she still remained. He went to see her in the
ward two or three times a week, though he dreaded the necessity.
From little incidents which occurred at such times, he was convinced
that all her fellow-patients, as well as the "sister" and nurses of
the wards, had been prejudiced against him by her reports and
accusations. To meet their looks occasioned him the most acute
suffering. Sometimes he sat by the bedside for half an hour without
speaking, then rose and hastened away to hide himself and be alone
with his misery.
He was earnest and eager to-night in his praise of Waymark's book,
which he had just read in manuscript.
"It is horrible," he exclaimed; "often hideous and revolting to me;
but I feel its absolute truth. Such a book will do more good than
half a dozen religious societies."
"If only people can be got to read it. Yet I care nothing for that
aspect of the thing. Is it artistically strong? Is it good as a
picture? There was a time when I might have written in this way with
a declared social object.
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