She wanted to be read to. Chloe named certain
composing books. The duchess chose a book of sermons. 'But we're all such
dreadful sinners, it's better not to bother ourselves late at night.' She
dismissed that suggestion. Chloe proposed books of poetry. 'Only I don't
understand them except about larks, and buttercups, and hayfields, and
that's no comfort to a woman burning,' was the answer.
'Are you feverish, madam?' said Chloe. And the duchess was sharp on her:
'Yes, madam, I am.'
She reproved herself in a change of tone: 'No, Chloe, not feverish, only
this air of yours here is such an exciting air, as the doctor says; and
they made me drink wine, and I played before supper--Oh! my money; I used
to say I could get more, but now!' she sighed--'but there's better in the
world than money. You know that, don't you, you dear? Tell me. And I want
you to be happy; that you'll find. I do wish we could all be!' She wept,
and spoke of requiring a little music to compose her.
Chloe stretched a hand for her guitar.
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