critically ill

And in his sedgy bed the lark, for joy that Day is nigh, / Scatters the pearléd dew from off the grass, / In tremulous ecstasy to greet the sun, / Who soon in gilded panoply will pass / Forth from yon orange-curtained pavilion / Hung in the burning east […]

Sky hazy, and appearances a little weatherish.

Except for the shaft of light thrown by her own headlamps, the darkness was Egyptian.