Laurence was lying quiet, his eyes open. She sat down beside him and took his hand. The light was dimmed, but she could see the glimmer of a smile on his face. His fingers closed round hers with a faint pressure. His eyes met hers, with a strange look, as if from a great distance.
"You feel a little better, don't you?" she said bending down.
"Yes," he answered, faintly.
"Don't make him talk," warned the nurse, "Tomorrow will be time enough."
"Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow," said Laurence's faint far-away voice. "Lighting fools the way to dusty death."
"Hush, you mustn't talk!" gasped Mary.
Again came that glimmer, like the reflection of a smile, on his face. And all the while that strange look in his eyes.
She clasped his inert hand, thin and shrunken. How these weeks of illness had wasted his strong body, withered him to a shadow. Man's flesh is grass—it is cut down and cast into the oven.... Man born of woman is of few days and full of trouble. He cometh up as a flower....