Gyp and her father had rooms in a hotel where he could bathe and drink
the waters without having to climb three hills. This was the first cure
she had attended since the long-past time at Wiesbaden. Was it
possible that was only six years ago? She felt so utterly, so strangely
different! Then life had been sparkling sips of every drink, and of none
too much; now it was one long still draft, to quench a thirst that would
not be quenched.
During these weeks she held herself absolutely at her father's disposal,
but she lived for the post, and if, by any chance, she did not get
her daily letter, her heart sank to the depths. She wrote every day,
sometimes twice, then tore up that second letter, remembering for what
reason she had set herself to undergo this separation. During the first
week, his letters had a certain equanimity; in the second week they
became ardent; in the third, they were fitful--now beginning to look
forward, now moody and dejected; and they were shorter. During this
third week Aunt Rosamund joined them. The good lady had become a staunch
supporter of Gyp's new existence, which, in her view, served Fiorsen
right. Why should the poor child's life be loveless? She had a
definitely low opinion of men, and a lower of the state of the
marriage-laws; in her view, any woman who struck a blow in that
direction was something of a heroine.
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