She wore a good deal of lace, spoke in a tired voice, and must certainly have been of the type called "sweetly pretty" some quarter of a century ago.

She drank hot water with her meals, and continually reminded Michael of his own mother.
Sylvia and Hermann certainly did all that could be done for her; in other words, they invariably saw that her water was hot, and her stock of novels replenished.

But when that was accomplished, there really appeared to be little more that could be done for her.

Her presence in a room counted for about as much as a rather powerful shadow on the wall, unexplained by any solid object which could have made it appear there.
But most of the day she spent in her own room, which was furnished exactly in accordance with her twilight existence.

There was a writing-table there, which she never used, several low arm-chairs (one of which she was always using), by each of which was a small table, on to which she could put the book that she was at the moment engaged on.
Lace hangings, of the sort that prevent anybody either seeing in or out, obscured the windows; and for decoration there were china figures on the chimney-piece, plush-rimmed plates on the walls, and a couple of easels, draped with chiffon, on which stood enlarged photographs of her husband and her children.
There was, it may be added, nothing in the least pathetic about her, for, as far as could be ascertained, she had everything she wanted.