It wants all one's pluck to shake
it off; don't let it grow on you. You'd better go down to Uncle Dennis
to-morrow. You've been overdoing it."
Barbara sighed.
"I wish it were to-morrow."
The car had stopped, and Lady Valleys said:
"Will you come in, or are you too tired? It always does them good to see
you."
"You're twice as tired as me," Barbara answered; "of course I'll come."
At the entrance of the two ladies, there rose at once a faint buzz
and murmur. Lady Valleys, whose ample presence radiated suddenly a
businesslike and cheery confidence, went to a bedside and sat down. But
Barbara stood in a thin streak of the July sunlight, uncertain where to
begin, amongst the faces turned towards her. The poor dears looked so
humble, and so wistful, and so tired. There was one lying quite
flat, who had not even raised her head to see who had come in. That
slumbering, pale, high cheek-boned face had a frailty as if a touch, a
breath, would shatter it; a wisp of the blackest hair, finer than silk,
lay across the forehead; the closed eyes were deep sunk; one hand,
scarred almost to the bone with work, rested above her breast. She
breathed between lips which had no colour. About her, sleeping, was a
kind of beauty. And there came over the girl a queer rush of emotion.
The sleeper seemed so apart from everything there, from all the
formality and stiffness of the ward.
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