But Rosalie shook her head. “No, thank you.”
And how difficult she found meal-times, when she must force down food against all wish and inclination. Sunday and Monday it was managed fairly well, but on the Tuesday at dinner-time Rosalie recognised the task was quite beyond her.
“All this tastes of cobwebs and damp soil,” she said. “If I must have one, give me one of those little lozenges you offered me the other day.”
It was brought. She took it with a glass of water, then rose from her seat. When she got to the door she turned round. Her pretty eyebrows were slightly raised, and she laughed.
“That was essence of cobweb, I believe. Thank you; I feel better already for it.”
All was lost upon the youth; he bowed gravely, and returned no answer, and Rosalie went away.
Up and down! Up and down the long dim corridor she walked, with nothing to do but think or mope, or grow melancholy through despair.
After tea Rosalie did not venture out beyond the sitting-room, for the old fear of the darkness had returned; and moreover, to-night a strange weariness oppressed her. At last she fell asleep. Her head rested on the table, and she slept there for nearly an hour.
A little after nine came Mariana and the supper.
“How is the dress progressing?” asked Rosalie.