At Christmas he gave her a set of a small edition of Meredith’s novels, very prettily bound in flexible leather, being guided in the choice of an author, as he intimated, rather by her preferences than his own. It was still too dark for reading, but she could see well enough to note the number of the last page—fifty-six. The fragrance of dryer sheets lay upon her like the snow that now drifted peacefully outside. "We've no time for any Bedlam scenes now. It isn't friendly as I thought it would be. When she came to herself, she found that her brother had quitted the room, leaving her to the care of a female attendant.
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