But with sickness comes forgetfulness of our part, and carelessness of the impression we are making upon the audience.

We are too weak to put the paint and powder on our faces, the stage finery lies unheeded by our side.

The heroic gestures, the virtuous sentiments are a weariness to us.

In the quiet, darkened room, where the foot-lights of the great stage no longer glare upon us, where our ears are no longer strained to catch the clapping or the hissing of the town, we are, for a brief space, ourselves.
This nurse was a quiet, demure little woman, with a pair of dreamy, soft gray eyes that had a curious power of absorbing everything that passed before them without seeming to look at anything.

Gazing upon much life, laid bare, had given to them a slightly cynical expression, but there was a background of kindliness behind.
During the evenings of my convalescence she would talk to me of her nursing experiences.