Oh, _bed!_ and he falls into
it as if he were diving into butter and though he murmurs "Nancy" once to
himself before his head sinks into pillows, in two seconds he is drugged
with such utter slumber that it is only the blind stupefied face of a man
under ether that he is able to lift from his haven when Ted comes in
half an hour later and announces, in the voice of one proclaiming a new
revelation, that Elinor is the finest person that ever lived and that
everything is most wholly and completely all right.
XLVI
"A letter for you, dear Nancy."
Mrs. Winters gestures at it refinedly--she never points--as Nancy comes in
to breakfast looking as if whatever sleep she had had not done her very
much good.
"From your dear, dear mother, I should imagine," she adds in sugared watery
tones.
Nancy opens it without much interest--Mother, oh, yes, Mother. Six crossed
pages of St. Louis gossip and wanderingly fluent advice. She sets herself
to read it, though, dutifully enough--she is under Mrs. Winters' eyes.
Father's usual September cold. The evil ways of friends' servants.
Pages:
254
255
256
257
258
259
260
261
262
263
264
265
266
267
268
269
270
271
272
273
274
275
276
277
278