Satisfied in this respect, he flung himself into a chair, for his iron frame seldom required the indulgence of a bed, and sought an hour's repose before he began the villanies of another day. ‘You were supposed to be nursing him,’ Martha grumbled, ‘and helping him convalesce. I could never have talked to you like this, forgetting everything that parts us, forgetting even your age, if I did not love you utterly. I kept them on myself till the sight of your empty chair and the chill loneliness of it all nearly sent me mad. It is impossible. It was a grand life.
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