Her feet
danced under her, and she gave a sigh of longing for the stubbles and
the sunny fields, and the companionship of handsome men, of health and
vigor as flawless and riotous as her own.
Oliver was lying still, with closed eyes, when she rejoined him. He made
no sign as she opened the door, and she sank down on a stool beside him
and laid her head against his shoulder.
"Dear Oliver, you must cheer up," she said, softly. "You'll be well
soon--quite soon--if you are only patient."
He made no reply.
"Did you like Mr. Nixon?" she asked, in the same caressing voice, gently
rubbing her cheek against his arm.
"One doesn't exactly like one's executioner," he said, hoarsely and
suddenly, but without opening his eyes.
"Oliver!--dearest!" She dropped a protesting kiss on the sleeve of his
coat.
Silence for a little, Alicia felt as if she could hardly breathe in the
hot room. Then Oliver raised himself.
"I am going blind!"--he said, violently. "And nothing can be done. Did
that man tell my mother that?"
"No, no!--Oliver!" She threw her arm round him, hastily repeating and
softening Nixon's opinion.
He sank back on his cushions, gloomily listening--without assent.
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