"You are anticipating the usual 'long-sea voyage' formula, I see," he said.
"Possibly."
"I should not prescribe it for you off-hand," he said. "Sea air is not a specific for all nervous complaints, as some people seem to think. You have no bodily pain?"
"No. I often wish I had."
"What you tell me about your gradual collapse coming on after the crisis of your troubles was over, and not during it, does not surprise me. Nor am I puzzled by your malady increasing if, as I suppose, you are living idly."
"I am. I have no courage to do anything or see anybody."
"Exactly. You live in a sort of hiding."
"Why—yes. You see, once I was well known to a good many people. My troubles became known to them too. I could not get rid of that burden I told you of except by blazoning them abroad. I shrink from meeting any people now. Therefore I live very quietly. I—"
Suddenly she seemed to grow tired of the half measures in frankness that had so far governed her communications. She spread forth her hands with a very characteristic, ample gesture of sudden confidence.
"I think I'll tell you exactly what it was," she said. "You may have read of me. Long ago, some years at least, I was obliged to take action against my husband, a Mr. Wilson, who afterwards assumed the name of Marr. I charged him with cruelty, won my case, and obtained a judicial separation."