There Miss Crawley lay for days--ever so many days--Mr. Bute reading books of devotion to her: for nights, long nights, during which she had to hear the watchman sing, the night-light sputter; visited at midnight, the last thing, by the stealthy apothecary; and then left to look at Mrs. Bute's twinkling eyes, or the flicks of yellow that the rushlight threw on the dreary darkened ceiling. 
There Miss Crawley lay for many days - Mrs. Bute reading books of devotion to her: for long nights, during which she had to hear the watchman sing. 