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Father Murray was still reading the letter and Mark motioned to Saunders to come to his side. Looking over the priest's shoulder, Mark read the lines again: "My Dear Mark: His Excellency isn't a very good housekeeper; I have found an envelope in one of the books, and a tiny slip of blue-corded pencil in the drawer of my dressing-table.
I should not any longer have to sit up aloft in the Red Tower with none to speak to me all alone on the top of a wall just because I had a crimson patch sewn on my blue-corded blouse, on my little white shirt, embroidered in red wool on each of my warm winter wristlets, and staring out from the front of both my stockings. It was a pretty enough pattern, too.
Whatever slow, unending work lay in them, whatever hungry loneliness they held for her heart, or coarseness of deed, she saw it all, shrinking from nothing. She looked at the tense blue-corded veins in her wrist, full of fine pure blood, gauged herself coolly, her lease of life, her power of endurance, measured it out against the work waiting for her. The work would be long, she knew.
The doctor, a grave-faced young man, put his fingers to the furrowed, blue-corded wrist. "You must be careful," he said. "You must take no liberties." The thin tide of life seemed to thrill rather than to throb under his finger. The old man chuckled. "I've got brother Jarge's girl to look after me now. She'll see I don't break barracks or do what I hadn't ought to.
She looked at the big blue-corded veins in her wrist, full of untainted blood, gauged herself coolly, her lease of life, her power of endurance, measured it out against the work waiting for her. No short task, she knew that. She would be old before it was finished, quite an old woman, hard, mechanical, worn out.
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