The mouth was hard, there were deep, set lines about it and about the
eyes there was a hint of cruelty which not even his smile hid entirely.
And though she strove to smile back bravely as she came forward to kiss
him, she knew that she was disappointed, and a little uneasy.
She knew that Henry Pollard must be about fifty; she saw that he looked
to be sixty. He had pulled himself up against his pillows and had drawn
on a dressing gown to cover his shoulders. He was well groomed; he had
had a shave yesterday; he did not look sick. But he did look old, like a
man who had aged prematurely and suddenly; and he did look worried and
tired, as though he had not slept well last night.
"I am alone just now," he smiled. "Mrs. Riddell is keeping house for me,
but I heard her go out a little while ago. For something for breakfast,
I suppose. You are looking well, Winifred. I knew you would be pretty.
Now, sit down."
No word yet of her errand, no query as to its success. She was grateful
to him for that. She wanted a moment, time in which to feel that she
knew him a little bit, before she could tell him. But she saw in his
eyes that he was curbing his eagerness, and that she would have to tell
him in a moment.
"I am sorry that you are sick, Uncle Henry," she said hastily, taking
the chair near his bed.
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