Jane Webster was lying on the bed in the darkness of her room and
crying. Her shoulders shook with sobs but she made no sound. Her
finger, that had been pressed down so hard against her palms, had
relaxed, but there was a spot, in the palm of her right hand, that
burned with a warm feverishness. Her mind had become passive now. Fancy
had released her from its grip. She was like a fretful and hungry child
that has been fed and that lies quietly with its face turned to a white
wall.
Her sobbing now indicated nothing. It was a release. She was a little
ashamed of her lack of control over herself and kept putting up the
hand, that held the stone, first closing it carefully that the precious
stone be not lost, and with her fist wiping the tears away. What she
wished, at the moment, was that she could become suddenly a strong
resolute woman, able to handle quietly and firmly the situation that
had arisen in the Webster household.