“I think she has,” said Rosamond, looking up in his face. “How heavy your eyes are, Tertius⁠—and do push your hair back.” He lifted up his large white hand to obey her, and felt thankful for this little mark of interest in him. Poor Rosamond’s vagrant fancy had come back terribly scourged⁠—meek enough to nestle under the old despised shelter. And the shelter was still there: Lydgate had accepted his narrowed lot with sad resignation. He had chosen this fragile creature, and had taken the burden of her life upon his arms. He must walk as he could, carrying that burden pitifully.