Fell to sin, did Martha. God bless you, Auntie! I'll go into the mills and make pulp with my bare hands, if you want me to. Twice Spurlock went to Copeley's—twenty miles to the northwest—for ice and mail. The address was of course her destination, thousands of miles away, an infinitesimal spot in a terrifying space. There was nothing to be learned from her face. Doctors constantly admonished and offered weak consolation that most would have been hurt much worse from the type of fall he took. She saw herself begin a slow, sinuous dance: and stop suddenly in the middle of a figure, conscious that the dance was not impromptu, her own, but native—the same dance she had quitted but a few minutes gone.
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