“What work, deary?”
“Did you ask what work? At the paper-mill.”
“Where is it?”
“Your face is turned up to the sky, and you can’t see it. It is close by. You can see my face, here, between you and the sky?”
“Yes.”
“Dare I lift you?”
“Not yet.”
“Not even lift your head to get it on my arm? I will do it by very gentle degrees. You shall hardly feel it.”
“Not yet. Paper. Letter.”
“This paper in your breast?”
“Bless ye!”
“Let me wet your lips