It was inexpressibly touching.
"He was my friend," she said.

"I shall never have such love again." "All is not lost when much is lost," said the doctor, with sad comfort.
"There are spring days in winter." "And _you_ don't like poetry!" she said, a sweet playful scorn shining through her tears.
"I spoke but a sober truth," he returned; "-- so sober that it seems but the sadder for its truth.

The struggle of life is to make the best of things that might be worse." She looked at him pitifully.

For a moment her lips parted, then a strange look as of sudden bodily pain crossed her face, her lips closed, and her mouth looked as if it were locked.

She shut the book which lay upon her knee, and resumed her needlework.