Wandering Heath by Sir Arthur Thomas Quiller-Couch
page 49 of 194 (25%)
page 49 of 194 (25%)
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sharp-featured man of about fifty, good-looking, with blue eyes and a
tinge of red in his hair--lay on his bed with his mouth firmly set and his eyes resting, wistfully almost, on the last wintry sunbeam that floated in by the geraniums on the window-ledge. He had not heard the news. For five days now he expected nothing but the end, and lay and waited for it stoically and with calm good temper. The Doctor took a seat by the bed-side, and put a question or two. They were answered by Mrs. Fugler, who moved about the small room quietly, removing, dusting and replacing the china ornaments on the chimneypiece. The sick man lay still, with his eyes upon the sunbeam. And then very quietly and distinctly the notes of M. Trinquier's key-bugle rose outside on the frosty air. The sick man started, and made as if to raise himself on his elbow, but quickly sank back again--perhaps from weakness, perhaps because he caught the Doctor's eye and the Doctor's reassuring nod. While he lay back and listened, a faint flush crept into his face, as though the blood ran quicker in his weak limbs; and his blue eyes took a new light altogether. "That's the tune, hey?" the Doctor asked. "That's the tune." "Dismal, ain't it?" "Ay, it's that." His fingers were beating time on the counterpane. |
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