She had felt as if she were going
mad--the effect, so he had told her afterwards, of the awful shock she
had had.
To-night she wondered with a kind of terror whether that terrible
sleeplessness which had ended by making her feel almost lightheaded was
coming back.
She turned away from the window, and, getting into bed again, tried to
compose her limbs into absolute repose, as the doctor had advised her to
do. And then, just as she was mercifully going to sleep, there floated
in, through the open window, a variant on a doggerel song she had last
heard in Egypt:--
"The angels sing-a-ling-a-ling-a-ling,
They've got the goods for me.
The bells of hell ring ting-a-ling-a-ling
For you, as you shall see."
Enid Crofton sat up in bed. She felt suddenly afraid--horribly,
desperately afraid. As is often the case with those who have drifted away
from any form of religion, she was very superstitious, and terrified of
evil omens. During the War she had been fond of going first to one and
then to another of the fashionable sooth-sayers.
They had all agreed as to one thing--this was that her husband would die,
and of course she had thought he would be killed at the Front.
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