There was white muslin tied with blue ribbons at the window, and the dressing-table was as gaily and innocently adorned.

There was a work-box on a little table, a writing-desk on another; a shelf of books hung on the wall.

The room had really been made ready for a dear young cousin of Lady Anne's, who had not lived to enjoy it.

If Mary had only known, she owed something of Lady Anne's interest to the fact that her eyes were grey, like Viola's, her cheek transparent like Viola's.
Apart from the discomfort of the broken arm, as she lay in the soft, downy little bed, she was ill at ease, wondering how they were getting on without her at Wistaria Terrace.

Her breast had an ache for the baby who was used to lie warm against it.