At six o'clock Lilly opened her eyes. They were clear and cool and the petal-like quality was out on her skin.
"Sweet Alice," she said, "oh, Sweet Alice, Ben Bolt," a bit of dream floating up with her like seaweed to the surface of consciousness. "Sweet Alice."
She had been reading Trilby, surreptitiously filched from Mrs.
Kemble's stack of novels.
"Lilly—mamma's Lilly!"
"Where—I—Where—"
"In your own room, sweetheart, and your own mother and father beside you."
"I thought—Sweet Alice—"
"The fever is gone now, Lilly. You won't have any of those thoughts any more. Go to sleep now, papa's girl."
"I must have been singing—'Faust'—what makes you and papa—so angry—with me—dears?"
"We're not, Lilly. Nothing makes us angry any more."