That was the unceasing burden of her cry, a cry to which I was compelled to listen with a torn heart.
"The reserve, the frame of mind, which I wore like armour in Robert Turold's company I dropped altogether at her bedside.

Her lucid intervals were few, but I was not afraid of her recognizing the old Cornish doctor with his muffler, his glasses, his shaggy white hair and beard.

The daily sight of her shrunken ageing features reminded me that I had nothing to fear--that Time had effectually disguised us from each other's recognition.

We were old, we two.

Life had receded from us--what had we to do with its fever, its regrets, its passions and futile joys?
The clock had ticked the time away, the fire was dying out, the hearth desolate and cold.