"The horspittle," said the mercenary, callously.
"She's sich a mite of a thing, with them big eyes lookin' sorry all the while. I feel sort of drawed to her. But she won't have no truck with me… nor nobody…. She hain't never left nothin' layin' around her room that a body could git any idee about her from. Secretive, I call it."
"Maybe," said the mercenary, "she's got a past."
"One thing's certain, if she don't look better 'fore she looks worse, she won't have a long future."
That seemed to be a true saying. Ruth felt something of it. It was harder for her to get up of mornings, more difficult to drag herself to work and hold up during the day. Sometimes she skipped the evening meal now and went straight home to bed. All she wanted was to rest, to lie down…. One day she fainted in the office….
Her burden was harder to support because it included not grief alone, but remorse, and if one excepts hatred, remorse is the most wearing of the emotions…. As she became weaker, less normal, it preyed on her.
Then, one morning, she fainted as she tried to get out of bed, and lay on the floor until consciousness returned. She dragged herself back into bed and lay there, gazing dully up at the ceiling, suffering no pain… only so tired. She did not speculate about it. Somehow it did not interest her very much. Even not going to work didn't bother her—she had reached that point.
Mrs. Moody had watched her going and coming for several days with growing uneasiness. This morning she knew Ruth had not gone out, and presently the woman slap-slapped up the stairs in her heelless slippers to see about it. She rapped on Ruth's door. There was no response. She rapped again….
"I know you're in there," she said, querulously. "Why don't you answer?"
Inside, Ruth merely moved her head from side to side on the pillow. She heard—but what did it matter?