But a break came, as she knew and feared it must.
One evening during one of these attacks, when for two days Carrie had not appeared at the dinner table, Alma, entering when the meal was almost over, seated herself rather exhaustedly at her mother's place opposite her stepfather.
He had reached the stage when that little unconscious usurpation in itself could annoy him.
"How's your mother?" he asked, dourly for him.
"She's asleep."
"Funny. This is the third attack this month and each time it lasts longer. Confound that neuralgia."
He pushed back his plate.
"Then I'll go in and sit with her while she sleeps."
She who was so fastidiously dainty of manner, half rose, spilling her soup.