Explore "Behold, It Was A Dream!" by Rhoda Broughton on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
-"WELL, I cannot say that you look much rested, " says Jane next morning, coming in to greet me, smiling and fresh--(yes, sceptic of eighteen, even a woman of thirty-seven may look fresh in a print gown on an August morning, when she has a well of lasting quiet happiness inside her, )--coming in with a bunch of creamy gloire de Dijons in her hand for the breakfast table. "You look infinitely more fagged than you did when I left you last night!"
"Do I?" say I rather faintly.