'I have lain here for three years--three years come Christmas Eve, doctor--between these four walls, summer and winter, winter and summer, and never knew except by heat or cold what season of the year it was.

And I am young,--just turned four-and-thirty,--and I may lie here thirty years more, unless I die or go mad.' 'Now, Phoebe,' remonstrated Mr.Hamilton,--and how gently he spoke!--'have I not told you over and over that things may mend yet if you will only be patient and good?
You are just making things worse by bearing them so badly.

Why, a friend of mine has been seven years on her back like you, and she is the happiest, cheeriest body: it is quite a pleasure to go into her room.' 'Maybe she is good, and I am wicked,' returned Phoebe sullenly.

'I cannot help it, doctor: it is one of my bad days, and nothing but wicked words come uppermost.

The devil has a deal of power when a woman is chained as I am.' 'Don't you think you could exorcise the demon by a song, Miss Garston ?' observed Mr.Hamilton, in an undertone.