It was a heavy, unnatural slumber like the effect of a sleeping potion. She was awakened in midmorning by Marta, bringing a breakfast tray. Roused, she recovered her vigor to the point of getting out of bed and declaring her intention of going downstairs. Her small hidebound trunk had been delivered to her room, and from its depth she took a morning costume of brown fustian which featured a high-necked polonaise with slashed sleeves to show a white blouse, and fullness which was drawn to the back exposing a white underskirt of the same material. It was as near to mourning wear as she had brought with her, and, with the addition of a black ribbon at the neck, should be unexceptional. Marta helped her with her laces and buttons and putting up her hair, though she did so in the heavy silence of disapproval. Amanda did not let that deter her. She was tired of the bed, tired of the coming and going in her bedroom, and of the feeling that the commotion and disruption in the household was her fault.
