"Will you open the window," she said, almost querulously, "and throw this
book out? It is so utterly foolish. I thought it was a valuable book; but
the words are merely strung together, they make no sense. Yes--so!" she
said with approval, seeing him fling it out into the street. "I must have
been very foolish when I thought that book good."
Then she turned to read, and leaned her little elbows resolutely on the
great volume, and knit her brows. This was Shakespeare--it must mean
something.
"I wish you would take a handkerchief and tie it tight round my head, it
aches so."
He had not been long in his seat when he saw drops fall from beneath the
hands that shaded the eyes, on to the page.
"I am not accustomed to so much light, it makes my head swim a little," she
said. "Go out and close the shutter."
When he came back, she lay shrivelled up among the pillows.
He heard no sound of weeping, but the shoulders shook. He darkened the
room completely.
When Gregory went to his sofa that night, she told him to wake her early;
she would be dressed before breakfast. Nevertheless, when morning came,
she said it was a little cold, and lay all day watching her clothes upon
the chair. Still she sent for her oxen in the country; they would start on
Monday and go down to the Colony.
In the afternoon she told him to open the window wide, and draw the bed
near it.
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