The Salt Of The Earth by Fred M. White

At times Adela thought she could not stand the strain of her mode of life any longer. Of course that was unreasonable; her life had the defects of its qualities, and she could not have it both ways. She had accepted existence as it was. It had seemed natural to turn night into day, to be always on the stretch, and she was beginning to feel the wear and tear. Many friends and acquaintances had fallen out of the race. It was nothing now to hear that this or that one had been ordered south, or was in the hands of a fashionable doctor. But Adela had regarded them as poor creatures, not physically fit to enter the arena.

Nevertheless, she could not herself keep up the pace much longer. There was no rest or relaxation anywhere. Whether the scene were London from March till July, or Cowes, Goodwood, Scotland, Homburg, or Monte Carlo, there was the same false excitement, the same constant worry and rush, the weary monotony of familiar faces. Adela was beginning to wonder whether this was enjoyment at all, and was getting to loathe it from the bottom of her heart. She longed to be by herself in the country. If she could only sleep, perchance she might be able to think, for the power of concentrated thought was leaving her. She had strange lapses of memory, could not rest indoors or out, started at a shadow. There was always present the fear that something was going to happen.