She plucked at the knots of her racket and heard him to the end, then spoke in a restrained undertone. “I will not have this slavery. The brain tires of resistance, and when it meets again and again, incoherently active, the same phrases, the same ideas that it has already slain, exposed and dissected and buried, it becomes less and less energetic to repeat the operation. “I wish,” she said, “that you would leave off looking at me as though I were something grisly. He was roused from the stupor of despair into which he had sunk by the voice of Ben, who roared in his ear, "The bridge!—the bridge!" CHAPTER VII.
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