And like a machine wound up, like a child in a passion, she still struggled to walk, her knees thrust out, doubled up, giving way, her feet trailing.
VI.
Not a stroke. Well, only a slight stroke, a threatening, a warning.
"Remember she's getting old, Mary."
Any little worry or excitement would do it.
She was worried and excited about me. Richard worried and excited her.
If I could only stay awake till she sleeps. She's lying there like a lamb, calling me "dear" and afraid of giving me trouble…. Her little hands dragged the bedclothes up to her chin when Dr. Charles came. She looked at him with her bright, terrified eyes.
She isn't old. She can't be when her eyes are so bright.
She thinks it's a stroke. She won't believe him. She thinks she'll die like Mrs. Heron.
Perhaps she knows.
Perhaps Dr. Charles really thinks she'll die and won't tell me. Richard thought it. He was sorry and gentle, because he knew. You could see by his cleared, smoothed face and that dreadfully kind, dreadfully wise look. He gave into everything—with an air of insincere, provisional acquiescence, as if he knew it couldn't be for very long. Dr. Charles must have told him.