At the close of three weeks I was able to quit my chamber and move about the house.

And on the first occasion of my sitting up in the evening I asked Catherine to read to me, because my eyes were weak.

We were in the library, the master having gone to bed: she consented, rather unwillingly, I fancied; and imagining my sort of books did not suit her, I bid her please herself in the choice of what she perused.

She selected one of her own favourites, and got forward steadily about an hour; then came frequent questions.
'Ellen, are not you tired?
Hadn't you better lie down now?
You'll be sick, keeping up so long, Ellen.' 'No, no, dear, I'm not tired,' I returned, continually.
Perceiving me immovable, she essayed another method of showing her disrelish for her occupation.

It changed to yawning, and stretching, and-- 'Ellen, I'm tired.' 'Give over then and talk,' I answered.
That was worse: she fretted and sighed, and looked at her watch till eight, and finally went to her room, completely overdone with sleep; judging by her peevish, heavy look, and the constant rubbing she inflicted on her eyes.