Monsieur Valade heaved a gusty sigh, and Gerald, with heavy diplomacy and a forced heartiness of manner, turned the subject. It’s the poor dears who do, who know they will, know they can’t keep it up, who need to clutch at way-side flowers. A short way off in the fields he descried a sort of shed or cow-house, and thither he contrived to drag his weary limbs. The by now familiar dramatic sigh came. “Who took care of you after she died?” “My father. Seconds went by, and the cannon fired just as Rhea descended upon Lucy.
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