Gradually, too, she descended to poverty and that without complaint.
To poverty dire as that from which she had fled, except that it was unaccompanied by the horror of simoon and blizzard, of hot winds and cold.
For her this sufficed.
Too proud to ask for help of those who passed her by in coldness as a soulless creature of a nature impossible to understand and therefore to be shunned, she toiled and delved alone, a recluse and outcast in the home of her birth. She delved in the patch of a garden for the wherewithal to keep the poor roof over her head. She hoed and dug and drove hard bargains with the grocers to whom she sold her meagre products. She washed and ironed and mended and darned and cooked, coming at length perforce to the drudgery which throughout her brief life in the hole in the ground she had scornfully disdained.
Not once did the thought of asking help of Seth or of returning to him present itself.
And yet there were tardy times when the memory of the winds remained with her day in and day out, when at twilight she sat on the steps of her vine-covered, crumbling portico and communed with herself.
When, placing herself apart, she reviewed her life and observed herself with the critical eye of an uninterested outsider.
Invariably then she would say to herself, remembering the wail and shriek and moan of the hideous winds:
"I would leave them again, the winds and the child and him. If it happened a second time, and I again had the choice, I would leave them exactly the same."
Then aloud, in apology for what had the look to her own biased eyes of utter heartlessness: