All these had a separate and distinct meaning for her.
Ronald could not teach her much more.

She liked the beautiful poems he read, but never could remember who had written them.

She forgot the names of great authors, or mixed them up so terribly that Ronald, in despair, told her it would be better not to talk of books just yet--not until she was more familiar with them.
But he soon found out that Dora could not read for many minutes together.

She would open her book, and make a desperate attempt; then her dark eyes would wander away to the distant mountains, or to the glistening river.

She could never read while the sun shone or the birds sang.
Seeing that, Ronald gave up all attempts at literature in the daytime; when the lamps were lighted in the evening, and the fair face of Nature was shut out, he tried again, and succeeded for ten minutes; then Dora's eyes drooped, the white lids with their jetty fringe closed; and with great dismay he found that over the masterpieces of the world Dora had fallen asleep.
Two long, bright years had passed away before Ronald began to perceive that he could educate his pretty young wife no further.