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‘There is nothing a man knows, in grief or in sin, Half so bitter as to think, What I might have been!’” |
CHAPTER III.
“Salome, you look so weary that I must insist upon relieving you. Give me the book and run out for a breath of fresh air—a glimpse of blue sky.”
Dr. Grey laid his hand on the volume, but the girl shook her head and pushed aside his fingers.
“I am not at all tired, and even if I were it would make 33 no difference. Miss Jane desires me to read this sermon aloud, and I shall finish it.”
The invalid, who had been confined to her bed for many days by a severe attack of rheumatism, partially raised herself on one elbow, and said,—
“My dear, give him the book, while you take a little exercise. You have been pent up here long enough, and, moreover, I want to talk to Ulpian about some business matters. Don’t look so sullen, my child; it makes no difference who reads the sermon to me. Kiss me, and run out on the lawn.”
The orphan relinquished chair and book, but there was no relaxation of her bent brows, and neither warmth nor lingering pressure in the firm, hardly drawn lips, which lightly touched the old lady’s sallow, wrinkled cheek. When she had left the room, closing the door after her with more force than was requisite to bolt it securely, Miss Jane sighed heavily, and turned to her brother.