I stood and looked at her. Her face was pale and thin, and her eyes
were large, and yet sleepy. I may say at once that she had dark eyes
and a sweet face; and that is all the description I mean to give of
her. I had been accustomed to see that face, if not rosy, yet plump
and healthy; and those eyes with plenty of light for themselves, and
some to spare for other people. But it was neither her wan look nor
her dull eyes that distressed me: it was the expression of her
face. It was very sad to look at; but it was not so much sadness as
utter and careless hopelessness that it expressed.

"Have you any pain, Adela?" I asked.

"No," she answered.

"But you feel ill?"

"Yes."

"How?"

"I don't know."

And as she spoke, she tapped with one finger on the edge of the
_couvre-pied_ which was thrown over her, and gave a sigh as if her
very heart was weary of everything.

"Shall you come down to dinner with us?"

"Yes, uncle; I suppose I must."