“She’s less thin than she used to be, but her eyes looked tired, I thought.”
“That sounds like nerves,” said Miss Blandflower, shaking her head with a sapient expression.
She had persisted in looking upon Frances as a victim to “nerves” ever since she had first heard of her wishing to leave Porthlew for the convent.
“Want of sleep, probably,” said Frederick.
A dull pang went through Rosamund at the words, though they only confirmed her own sick apprehensions and surmises, and she said apathetically:
“Yes. They get up at five every morning, always.”
“Yes, my dear, but they go to bed early, don’t they?” sensibly remarked Mrs. Tregaskis.
“About half-past nine, I think. That’s when they all leave the chapel.”
“Oh, well, there you are. It doesn’t hurt anyone to get up early if they go to bed early enough. It’s the sleep that you get before midnight that counts, you know,” said Mrs. Tregaskis comfortably.
“‘Early to bed and early to rise