At intervals of a minute she tossed restlessly from side to side, and indistinctly moaned words used in the game of chess.
Mrs.Swancourt had a turn for doctoring, and felt her pulse.

It was twanging like a harp-string, at the rate of nearly a hundred and fifty a minute.

Softly moving the sleeping girl to a little less cramped position, she went downstairs again.
'She is asleep now,' said Mrs.Swancourt.

'She does not seem very well.
Cousin Knight, what were you thinking of?
her tender brain won't bear cudgelling like your great head.

You should have strictly forbidden her to play again.' In truth, the essayist's experience of the nature of young women was far less extensive than his abstract knowledge of them led himself and others to believe.