Creaking and pausing, the goosequill made large, stiff letters on the white surface.

Henrica was not skilled in writing, but to-day it must have been unspeakably difficult for her; her high forehead became covered with perspiration, her mouth was distorted by pain, and whenever she had finished a few lines, she closed her eyes or drank greedily from the water-pitcher that stood beside her.
The large room was perfectly still, but the peace that surrounded her was often disturbed by strange noises and tones, that rose from the dining-hall directly under her chamber.

The clinking of glasses, shrill tittering, loud, deep laughter, single bars of a dissolute love-song, cheers, and then the sharp rattle of a shattered wine glass reached her in mingled sounds.

She did not wish to hear it, but could not escape and clenched her white teeth indignantly.

Yet meantime the pen did not wholly stop.
She wrote in broken, or long, disconnected sentences, almost incoherently involved.