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Updated: May 3, 2025
I am happy today, and write sitting on the seat in the churchyard. Lucy is ever so much better. Last night she slept well all night, and did not disturb me once. The roses seem coming back already to her cheeks, though she is still sadly pale and wan-looking. If she were in any way anemic I could understand it, but she is not. She is in gay spirits and full of life and cheerfulness.
Why, what have I to be worried about now we're together again?" His face cleared. "I suppose you're just feeling a bit lonely without that 'best brother' of yours. Is that it?" "Yes. That's it," she said, nodding emphatically. "I miss Robin. You you won't have to send him away again, Eliot." "I don't think I shall," he returned, smiling, "if it reduces you to such a wan-looking little person.
“The elder, the splendid elder, the elder! The honor and glory of the monastery, Zossima. Such an elder!” But his incoherent talk was cut short by a very pale, wan-looking monk of medium height, wearing a monk’s cap, who overtook them. Fyodor Pavlovitch and Miüsov stopped.
I felt my knees begin to tremble. There on the bed, seemingly in a swoon, lay poor Lucy, more horribly white and wan-looking than ever. Even the lips were white, and the gums seemed to have shrunken back from the teeth, as we sometimes see in a corpse after a prolonged illness.
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