They’re fairly intricate little things. “You know,” he muttered, “you know quite well that your troubles are far more likely to weigh upon me than my own. The light was poor, so that she saw their gleaming faces dimly and indistinctly. Fretting and fidgeting, he had, after an hour or so, turned to McClintock. She forgot Anna’s sacrifices, forgot her own callousness, forgot the burden which she had fastened upon her sister’s shoulders. He smiled. Good riddance to bad rubbish. Moving back to the corner again, she ran a hand back over the leather-bound books—which, she realised, were not books at all.
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