This gloom was impossible. One of these, a lady, evidently a confirmed invalid, and attired in deep mourning, reclined upon a sort of couch, or easy chair, set on wheels, with her head supported by cushions, and her feet resting upon a velvet footstool. The cook tried to ply her with spiced meat and fish soup. But this was not a season in which to be needlessly scrupulous. Spurlock advanced, the censer swung high. Spurling; "they're both here. T’weren’t fitting, we knew that. ‘I’ll take wine,’ the lady said briefly, turning back instantly to Hilary. At the thought of the major, her tears redoubled and she was obliged to rip off a piece from the remnants of her already maltreated underpetticoats with which to blow her nose and soak the damp from her cheeks.
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