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137
The Solitary Summer
·
Elizabeth Von Arnim
75
In
the
next
room
I
went
into
an
old
woman
lay
in
bed
with
her
head
tied
up
in
bandages.
The
room
had
not
much
in
it,
or
it
would
have
been
untidier;
it
looked
neglected
and
gloomy,
and
some
dirty
plates,
suggestive
of
long-past
dinners,
were
piled
on
the
table.
"Oh,
such
headaches!"
groaned
the
old
woman
when
she
saw
me,
and
moved
her
head
from
side
to
side
on
the
pillow.
I
could
see
she
was
not
undressed,
and
had
crept
under
her
feather
bag
as
she
was.
I
went
to
the
bedside
and
felt
her
pulse--a
steady
pulse,
with
nothing
of
feverishness
in
it.
"Oh,
such
draughts!"
moaned
the
old
woman,
when
she
saw
I
had
left
the
door
open.
"A
little
air
will
make
you
feel
better,"
I
said;
the
atmosphere
in
the
shut-up
room
was
so
indescribable
that
my
own
head
had
begun
to
throb.
"Oh,
oh!"
she
moaned,
in
visible
indignation
at
being
forced
for
a
moment
to
breathe
the
pure
summer
air.
"I
have
something
at
home
that
will
cure
your
headache,"
I
said,
"but
there
is
nobody
I
can
send
with
it
to-day.
If
you
feel
better
later
on,
come
round
and
fetch
it.
I
always
take
it
when
I
have
a
headache"--
("Why,
Elizabeth,
you
know
you
never
have
such
things!"
whispered
my
conscience,
appalled.
"You
just
keep
quiet,"
I
whispered
back,
"I
have
had
enough
of
you
for
one
day.")--"and
I
have
some
grapes
I
will
give
you
when
you
come,
so
that
if
you
possibly
can,
do."
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