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HE gazed steadily out of the car window at the passing panorama, the high back of her chair protecting her, and shutting her away alone with her contemplations. She knew that one of her fits of depression—of late frequent, they used to be rare—was gradually creeping upon her, had been for days. She had been fighting it for a week (one could not indulge one's feelings when visiting), but now relieved of the necessity of conversation, and safe from all danger of having to give an explanation for her silence and abstraction, she gave herself up with something almost like relief to the despair which had so long been waiting its chance to take possession of her soul.

The futility of her existence, the utter aimlessness and uselessness of it swept over Constance Weatherby to-day in big engulfing waves, blotting out from her vision the placid green fields, and rolling pasturage outside the car window, and robbing her of all joy in anticipation of seeing the family again—Adelaide and Christine 57