She sat looking straight in front of her, a tear slipping from time to time down her white cheek.

Except on one or two occasions Fay had that rarest charm of looking beautiful in tears.

She became paler than ever, never red and disfigured and convulsed, with the prosaic cold in the head that accompanies the emotions of less fortunate women.
"How old is Michael ?" she asked suddenly in the midst of a painstaking account of certain leniencies as to diet, certain macaronis and soups which the doctor had insisted on for Michael.
"He is twenty-seven." "And how long has he been in prison ?" "Nearly two years." "And he has thirteen more," said Fay, looking at Wentworth with wide eyes blank with horror.
"No," said Wentworth, his voice shaking a little.

"No, Michael will not live long in that swamp, not many years, I think." "But they will move him to a better climate." "He does not want to be moved.

I should not, either, in his case." Fay's hands fell to her sides.
"When my mother died," said Wentworth, "I promised her to be good to Michael.