She was trying to think, but thoughts refused to come
consecutively, and a dull annoyance at this inability to reason upon
her position fretted her consciousness. Not with impunity can the
human mind surrender itself for half a year to unvaried brooding
upon one vast misery; the neglected faculties revenge themselves by
rusting, and will not respond when at length summoned. For months
Ida's thoughts had gone round and round about one centre of anguish,
like a wailing bird circling over a ravaged nest. The image of her
mental state had been presented by an outward experience with which
she became familiar. Waking long before daylight, she would lie with
her eyes directed to the little barred window, and watch till there
came the first glimmer of dawn. Even so was it her sole relief in
the deep night of her misery to look forward for that narrow gleam
of hope--her ultimate release. As the day approached, she made it
the business of her thoughts to construct a picture of the events it
would bring. Even before hearing from Waymark, she had been sure
that he would meet her; Waymark and freedom grew identical images;
to be free meant to see him awaiting her and to put herself
absolutely in his hands.
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