I really like this.
The hours ahead, like all her nights with him, would be added, she thought, to the savings account of one's life where the moments of time are stored in the pride of having been lived. The only pride of her workday was not that it had been lived, but that it had been survived. It was wrong, she thought, it was viciously wrong that one should ever be forced to say that about any hour of one's life. But she could not think of it now. She was thinking of him, of the struggle she had watched through the months behind him, his struggle for deliverance; she had known that she could help him win, but must help him in every way except in words.