No diary for
two whole days. I have not had the heart to write. Some sort of shadowy pall
seems to be coming over our happiness. No news from Jonathan, and Lucy seems to
be growing weaker, whilst her mother's hours are numbering to a close. I do not
understand Lucy's fading away as she is doing. She eats well and sleeps well,
and enjoys the fresh air; but all the time the roses in her cheeks are fading, and
she gets weaker and more languid day by day; at night I hear her gasping as if
for air. I keep the key of our door always fastened to my wrist at night, but
she gets up and walks about the room, and sits at the open window. Last night I
found her leaning out when I woke up, and when I tried to wake her I could not;
she was in a faint. When I managed to restore her she was as weak as water, and
cried silently between long, painful struggles for breath. When I asked her how
she came to be at the window she shook her head and turned away. I trust her
feeling ill may not be from that unlucky prick of the safety-pin. I looked at
her throat just now as she lay asleep, and the tiny wounds seem not to have
healed. They are still open, and, if anything, larger than before, and the
edges of them are faintly white. They are like little white dots with red
centres. Unless they heal within a day or two, I shall insist on the doctor
seeing about them.
Find definitions for the words below.
They will help you understand the text better.
pall
languid
prick
shadowy
tiny
wake
restore
happiness
insist
fresh
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