She must have been very ill, even in the short time--and then her grief,--for, even though she had been so much separated from it, a mother always loves her child.

Then this thought hurt him again.

He hated to remember about the child.
She lay there back against the pillows until they had got quite out of London, without speaking a word.

The wine in her weak state made her sleepy, and she gradually fell into a doze, and her head slipped sideways and rested against Tristram's shoulder, and it gave him a tremendous thrill--her beautiful, proud head with its thick waves of hair showing under her cap.
He was going to leave her so soon, and she would not know it--she was asleep--he must just hold her to him a little; she would be more comfortable like that.

So, with cautious care not to wake her, he slipped his arm under the cushion, and very gently and gradually drew her into his embrace, so that her unconscious head rested upon his breast.
And thus more than two hours of the journey were accomplished.
And what thoughts coursed through his brain as they went! He loved her so madly.