She persuaded him to go to a sanitarium she knew of; he didn’t want to,
didn’t want to linger on, at her expense. But for her sake, for the sake
of her anguish, he consented. He lived there nearly six months, writing
to her now and then, stiff, stupid little notes. He died rather
suddenly.
She never again mentioned him to a living soul; no one else knew what
had happened to him. She let him die in peace, rest in peace. She went
on just as usual; it was her pride to keep her pain to herself, to hide
it absolutely. She never forgot him; really remained faithful to that
pitiful wraith. She had duties, interests, even pleasures enough, she
lived vigorously and fully. But that wound never healed. She was never
again conscious of absolute content, or of real hope. She never regarded
the future with eagerness. Her heart was not whole.