But you may read the debates to me if you like, my dear, for
if my eyes are strong, I myself am very tired. Sick to death, Mary, sick
to death.'
The splendid eyes turned from Mary, and looked away to the blue sky, to
the hills in their ineffable beauty of colour and light--shifting,
changing with every moment of the summer day. Intense weariness, a
settled despair, were expressed in that look--tearless, yet sadder than
all tears.
'It must be very monotonous, very sad for you,' murmured Mary, her own
eyes brimming over with tears. 'But it will not be always so, dear
grandmother. I hope a time will come when you will be able to go about
again, to resume your old life.'
'I do not hope, Mary. No, child, I feel and know that time will never
come. My strength is ebbing slowly day by day. If I live for another
year, live to see Lesbia married, and you, too, perhaps--well, I shall
die at peace. At peace, no; not----' she faltered, and the thin,
semi-transparent hand was pressed upon her brow. 'What will be said of
me when I am dead?'
Mary feared that her grandmother's mind was wandering.
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