"I didn't refer to the Bible. I was thinking of books generally."
"You mean you never notice how a book is written. You just want to get on with the plot."
"That's it," she agreed. "I hate descriptions. They tire me to death, especially as to how the characters feel inside about things. Heroines are the worst of all. They commune with themselves for hours over the merest trifles."
"Do you mean as to whether they will get a new dress, or engage a man to put a new washer on the bathroom tap which drips?"
"Oh, no," she said, a little impatiently, "I can't explain; it is not over things like that they worry themselves. But you look tired. You are talking too much. I will read you to sleep."
She spoke with finality, and picked up the book.
As she read aloud in a somewhat sonorous voice I lay and watched the tree-tops. "Next week," I thought, "I shall be out of doors once more. I shall visit the frog-pond with Dimbie. I shall wander through the fields with him. His arm will clasp mine, as I shall be weak, and we shall sit and rest under a white hawthorn hedge. The scent will be heavy on the still evening air. The fields of clover and wheat will——" And at this point I left Peggy and nurse, and fell asleep.