A desperate sense of wrong and injury—of pain and grief swept over him.
He turned from the white night and threw himself upon the bed,—abject, lonely, miserable! If he could only die—if he only could! but it was the sickness not of death, but of life, that was on him.
For a time he was unable to think or to throw off the stupor possessing him.
His mother came into the room, but he did not look up.
She closed the window, saying: “Philip, if you intend to lie there, you must be wrapped up, or you will take cold.”
He did not speak, and she added: “It's late. It's almost midnight. Won't you go to bed?”
He shook his head.
“My poor boy! my poor boy!—I am so sorry!”
“The worst is over with,” he said.
“Can't I help you? It hurts me to see you so. I wish——”