Claire, or, if she did, she bore no
malice for the patient, all-enduring girl who nursed her with so
much care, singing to her the plaintive German air once sung to
Dr. Griswold, and in which Edith would often join, taking one
part, while Nina sang the other; and the members of the household,
when they heard the strange melody, now swelling load and full, as
some fitful fancy took possession of the crazy vocalists, and now
sinking to a plaintive wail, would shudder, and turn aside to
weep, for there was that in the music which reminded them of the
hearse wheels grinding down the gravel, and of the village bell
giving the eighteen strokes. Sometimes, for nearly a whole night
those songs of the olden time would echo through the house, and
with each note she sang the fever burned more fiercely in Edith's
veins, and her glittering black eyes flashed with increased fire,
while her fingers clutched at her tangled hair, as if they thus
would keep time to the thrilling strain. Her hair troubled her, it
was so heavy, so thick, so much in her way, and when she
manifested a propensity to relieve herself of the burden by
tearing it from the roots the physician commanded them to cut away
those beautiful shining braids, Edith's crowning glory.
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