"A mere spectre!"
"Is she ill, or only famished?"
"Famished, I think. Hannah, is that milk? Give it me, and a piece
of bread."
Diana (I knew her by the long curls which I saw drooping between
me and the fire as she bent over me) broke some bread, dipped it
in milk, and put it to my lips. Her face was near mine: I saw
there was pity in it, and I felt sympathy in her hurried breathing.
In her simple words, too, the same balm-like emotion spoke: "Try
to eat."
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