Here

And the days in the hospital sped away. I do not know how; I
did not know at the time. Only as one lives and works and
breathes and sleeps in the presence of a single thought,
enveloping and enfolding everything else. The life was hardly
my own life; it was the life of another; or rather the two
lives were for the time so joined that they were almost one.
In a sort happy, as long as it was so.

But I knew it could not last; and the utter uncertainty when
it would end, oppressed me fearfully. Nothing in Mr. Thorold's
looks or manner gave me any help to judge about it. His face
was like itself always; his eye yet sometimes flashed and
sparkled after its own brilliant fashion, as gayly and freely
as ever. It always gave me untold pain; it brought life and
death into such close neighbourhood, and seemed to mock at the
necessity which hung over us. And then, if Mr. Thorold saw a
shadow come over my brow, he would give me such words and
looks of comfort and help, that again death was half swallowed
up of a better life, before the time. So the days went; and
Mr. Thorold said I grew thin; and the nurses and attendants
were almost reverentially careful of me; and Dr. Sandford was
a silent servant of mine and of Mr. Thorold's too, doing all
that was possible for us both. And Preston was fearfully
jealous and irritable; and wrote, I knew long afterwards, to
my mother; and my mother sent me orders to return home to her
at once and leave everything; and Dr. Sandford never gave me
the letters. I missed nothing; knew nothing; asked nothing;
until the day came that I was looking for.