She lay flat and exhausted, and the embrace of her loving arms was slow and frail.
Edith was what she called "dressed," and waiting for her sister-in-law.
The little table by her bed was strewn with the presents she had bought and made for Anne.

A birthday was a very serious affair for Edith.

She was not content to buy (buying was nothing; anybody could buy); she must also make, and make beautifully.

"I mayn't have any legs that can carry me," said Edith; "but I've hands and I _will_ use them.

If it wasn't for my hands I'd be nothing but a great lumbering, lazy mass of palpitating heart." But her making had become every year more and more expensive.