Bingley came down to the kitchen.
"Now, Esther, is there nothing for you to do?"
And again, about eight o'clock, she felt too tired to bear the weight of
her own flesh. She had passed through fourteen hours of almost
unintermittent toil, and it seemed to her that she would never be able to
summon up sufficient courage to get through the last three hours. It was
this last summit that taxed all her strength and all her will. Even the
rest that awaited her at eleven o'clock was blighted by the knowledge of
the day that was coming; and its cruel hours, long and lean and
hollow-eyed, stared at her through the darkness. She was often too tired
to rest, and rolled over and over in her miserable garret bed, her whole
body aching. Toil crushed all that was human out of her; even her baby was
growing indifferent to her. If it were to die! She did not desire her
baby's death, but she could not forget what the baby-farmer had told
her--the burden would not become lighter, it would become heavier and
heavier. What would become of her? Was there no hope? She buried her face
in her pillow, seeking to escape from the passion of her despair. She was
an unfortunate girl, and had missed all her chances.
In the six months she had spent in the house in Chelsea her nature had
been strained to the uttermost, and what we call chance now came to decide
the course of her destiny.
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