“Did you want anything, maam?” I inquired, still preserving my external composure, in spite of her ghastly countenance and strange, exaggerated manner.
“What is that apathetic being doing?” she demanded, pushing the thick entangled locks from her wasted face. “Has he fallen into a lethargy, or is he dead?”
He imagines me in a pet-in play, perhaps
“Neither,” replied I; “if you mean Mr. Linton. Hes tolerably well, I think, though his studies occupy him rather more than they ought: he is continually among his books, since he has no other society.”
I should not have spoken so if I had known her true condition, but I could not get rid of the notion that she acted a part of her disorder.