Mrs. Carter had
herself brought her to Liverpool, but had gone back again to
Manchester at once, as she could not stay the night. When he first
set eyes on his wife he was astonished at the change in her. She was
whiter, if possible, than ever, thin in the face, dark-ringed about
the eyes, and very weak. But otherwise she was what she had always
been. The hair was just as smooth, everything about her just as
spotlessly clean and unruffled, and she sat as she always did, rather
upright and straight, as if she preferred the discomfort of a
somewhat rigid position to the greater discomfort of disarranging her
gown.
Zachariah had much to say. During the whole of the four hours before
bedtime he did not once feel that drying-up of conversation which
used to be so painful to him. It is true she herself said little or
nothing, but that was of no moment. She was strengthless, and he did
not expect her to talk. So long as he could speak he was happy. The
next morning came, and with it came Hope, as it usually came to him
in the morning, and he kissed her with passionate fervour as he went
out, rejoicing to think that, although she was so feeble, she was
recovering; that he could once more look forward as in earlier days,
to the evening, and forgetting every cloud which had ever come
between them.
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