Explore "Tono-Bungay" by H.G. Wells on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
Last belated figure in that grouping round my uncle's deathbed is my aunt. When it was beyond all hope that my uncle could live I threw aside whatever concealment remained to us and telegraphed directly to her. But she came too late to see him living. She saw him calm and still, strangely unlike his habitual garrulous animation, an unfamiliar inflexibility.
"It isn't like him," she whispered, awed by this alien dignity.