He noted her hands; his eyes did not linger there, for the hands had the wrinkles and hollows and age marks which but for art would have been in the face, and they gave him a feeling--he could not have defined it, but it made him shudder.

His eyes rested again upon her face, with an expression of pity that was slightly satirical.

This struggle of hers seemed so petty and silly to him now; how could any human being think any other fact important when the Great Fact hung from birth threateningly over all?
"You feel worse to-day, dear ?" said she, in the tones that sound carefully attuned to create an impression of sympathy.

Hers had now become the mechanically saccharine voice which sardonic time ultimately fastens upon the professionally sympathetic to make them known and mocked of all, even of the vainest seekers after sympathy.
"On the contrary, I feel better," he drawled, eyes half-shut.

"No pain at all.