"Would you like the paper?" she asked.

"Yes," I said, and then almost regretted it, for having waited nearly
fifty years for yesterday's news surely I could wait longer. Still,
the paper would help to pass the time.

While she was fetching it I remembered a dream of last night which I
had intended to tell her this morning.

But why do so? A dream is of no account even to the dreamer. Still,
the recital might have made her laugh. But why should laughter be
bothered about?

The nurse brought the paper and I signified Thank you.

"I'll leave you for a while now," she said; "The fire's all right.
Your drink's by the bed. You'll ring if you want anything."

All these things I knew. My drink is always beside the bed; the bell
is the natural communication between me and the house. What a foolish
chatterbox the woman was! I nodded and she went out.

On her return an hour or so later she asked, "Is there anything in the
paper?"

Before answering I examined this question. What did it mean? It did
not mean, Are the pages this morning absolutely blank, for a change?
It meant, Is there a good murder? Is any very important person dead?
In reply I handed the paper to her.