But not with eyes like these had she been wont to dream on the green branches or on the sward that lay deep in sunlight.

On her raised lids sat the heaviness of mourning; she seemed to strain her sight to something very far off, something which withdrew itself from her desire, upon which her soul called and called in vain.
Her cheeks showed their thinness, her brow foretold the lines which would mark it when she grew old.

It was a sob in her throat which called her back to consciousness, a sob which her lips, well-trained warders, would not allow to pass.
She forced herself to the book again, and for some minutes plied her dictionary with feverish zeal.

Then there came over her countenance a strange gleam of joy, as if she triumphed in self-conquest.

She smiled as she continued her work, clearly making a happiness of each mastered sentence.