Her eye fastened itself upon the purple square of blotting paper which looked, in the light of the lamp, like glowing metal.
She did not know how long she had sat there. It might have been minutes or hours. Often enough the morning had caught her brooding thus.
The sick man's breath came with greater difficulty, his fingers grasped hers more tightly.
"Do you feel worse?" she asked.
"I am a little afraid," he said; "therefore, read me——"
He stopped, for he felt the quiver of her hand.
"You know, if you don't want to—" He was wounded in his wretched valetudinarian egotism, which was constantly on the scent of neglect.
"Oh, but I do want to; I want to do everything that might——"
She hurried to the table, pushed the glittering bottles aside, grasped the hymnal and read at random.
But she had to stop, for it was a prayer for rain that she had begun.