His mother lived with him, she and his sister; the latter went out to work; all were dependent upon the wages of the week.

Nearly a year went by, during which Gilbert did not open a book.

It was easier for him, he said, not to read at all than to measure his reading by the demands of his bodily weakness.

He would have sold his handful of books, sold them in sheer bitterness of mind, but this his mother interfered to prevent.
But he could not live so.

There was now a danger that the shadow of misery would darken into madness, Little by little he resumed his studious habits, yet with prudence.