"She still thinks it was I who made the plot to take her away and shut her up.

She is often angry with me, poor darling, but--but you see it isn't she who is angry: it's just her malady." "Yes, my dear," said Lady Barbara.

"I am so glad you see it like that." "How else could I see it?
It was my real mother whom I began to know last Christmas, and whom I was with in town for the three months that followed.

That's how I think of her: I can't think of her as anything else." "And how is she otherwise ?" Again he shook his head.
"She is wretched, though they say that all she feels is dim and veiled, that we mustn't think of her as actually unhappy.

Sometimes there are good days, when she takes a certain pleasure in her walks and in looking after a little plot of ground where she gardens.