For she could stand it no longer. Dr. Holmes might say there was
nothing the matter. Far rather would she that her were dead! She
could not sit beside
him when he stared so and did not see her and made everything
terrible; sky and tree, children playing, dragging carts, blowing
whistles, falling down; all were terrible. And he would not kill
himself; and she could tell no one. "Septimus has been working too
hard"&emdash;that was al she could say to her own mother. To love
makes one solitary, she thought. She could tell nobody, not even
Septimus now, and looking back, she saw him sitting in his shabby
overcoat alone, on the seat, hunched up, staring. And it was cowardly
for a man to say he would kill himself, but Septimus had fought; he
was brave; he was not Septimus now. She put on her lace collar. She
put on her new hat and he never noticed; and he was happy without
her. Nothing could make her happy without him! Nothing! He was
selfish. So men are. For he was not ill. Dr. Holmes said there was
nothing the matter with him. She spread her hand before her. Look!
Her wedding ring slipped&emdash;she had grown so thin. It was she who
suffered-- but she had nobody to tell.