He stood for hours holding her tightly in his arms to subdue the rude shocks which distorted her.

During intervals of calmness he would gaze with pity on her convulsed features and withered frame, over which her skirts lay like a shroud.

These hidden dramas, which recurred every month, this old woman as rigid as a corpse, this child bent over her, silently watching for the return of consciousness, made up amidst the darkness of the hovel a strange picture of mournful horror and broken-hearted tenderness.
When aunt Dide came round, she would get up with difficulty, and set about her work in the hovel without even questioning Silvere.

She remembered nothing, and the child, from a sort of instinctive prudence, avoided the least allusion to what had taken place.

These recurring fits, more than anything else, strengthened Silvere's deep attachment for his grandmother.