She fell into a deep delirium, whispering hoarsely to her dead mother, cursing God in Heaven, cursing her doctor, cursing herself as apparitions of devils and demons pulled at her with yellow ochre hands. In the discussion there was the oddest mixture of things that were personal and petty with an idealist devotion that was fine beyond dispute. Spurlock, filled with self-mockery, sat in a chair on the west veranda. Warm life was behind that always, even if it slept. She heard him come in; the light burned on. Both of them.
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