Wilkins, why not to Frederick?
She got up quickly. Yes, she would write. She would go and
write to him at once.
But suppose--
She paused. Suppose he didn't answer. Suppose he didn't even
answer.
And she sat down again to think a little longer.
In these hesitations did Rose spend most of the second week.
Then there was Mrs. Fisher. Her restlessness increased that
second week. It increased to such an extent that she might just as
well not have had her private sitting-room at all, for she could no
longer sit. Not for ten minutes together could Mrs. Fisher sit. And
added to the restlessness, as the days of the second week proceeded on
their way, she had a curious sensation, which worried her, of rising
sap. She knew the feeling, because she had sometimes had it in
childhood in specially swift springs, when the lilacs and the syringes
seemed to rush out into blossom in a single night, but it was strange
to have it again after over fifty years. She would have liked to
remark on the sensation to some one, but she was ashamed. It was such
an absurd sensation at her age. Yet oftener and oftener, and every day
more and more, did Mrs. Fisher have a ridiculous feeling as if she were
presently going to burgeon.
Sternly she tried to frown the unseemly sensation down.
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