The interior was hot and untidy.

On a couch a woman in the firm grip of consumption was lying; an emaciated, feverish woman, fretful with acute suffering.

A little child, wan and waxy-looking, and apparently as ill as its mother, wailed in a cot by her side.

Signor Lanza was smoking under a fig-tree in the neglected acre, which had been a vineyard or a garden.

Harry had gone into the village for some necessity; and when he returned Julius felt a shock and a pang of regret for the dashing young soldier squire that he had known as Harry Sandal.
He kissed his wife with passionate love and sorrow, and then turned to Julius with that mute look of inquiry which few find themselves able to resist.
"He is alive yet,--much better, he says; and Charlotte thinks he may be in the fields again next season." "Thank God! My poor Beatrice and her baby! You see what is coming to them ?" "Yes." "And I am so poor I cannot get her the change of air, the luxuries, the medicines, which would at least prolong life, and make death easy." "Go back with me to Sandal-Side, and see the squire: he may listen to you now." "Never more! It was cruel of father to take my marriage in such a way.
He turned my life's joy into a crime, cursed every hour that was left me." "People used to be so intense--'a few strong feelings,' as Mr.
Wordsworth says--too strong for ordinary life.