And there was a picture of St.Augustine sitting with his mother Monica, that reminded me of Mr.Hamilton too.

I had called him plain, and Jill thought him positively ugly, but, after all, there was something noble in his expression, a power that made itself felt.
Just then the lines of his face relaxed and softened; he half smiled, looked up, and our eyes met.

I was terribly abashed at the thought that he should find me watching him; but, to my surprise, his face brightened, and he roused himself and crossed the room.
'I was dreaming, I think, but you woke me.

Are you very tired?
Shall I take your place ?' But before I could reply his manner changed, and he stooped over the bed, and then looked at me with a smile.
'I thought so.

The breathing is certainly less difficult: the inflammation is diminishing.