"The gardens," says Laertes at once. "She knew every herb and flower--the palace gardens were her great joy, but she took delight in the weeds along the roadsides, too. She knew every use of them; she knew what ailments they could heal, and what they meant when gathered into a nosegay. Winters went hard with her," he remembers, voice dropping. "Some days, she could scarce bestir herself from bed for meals. On others, she was sharp with everyone. She had not the art of idle talk; she spoke to the purpose, or not at all. On those hard days, I'd write to her instead of speaking. In writing, all that sharpness softened. Her wits roused; she was playful, and wise, and very funny."