“She went of her own accord.”
“Impossible, Lawrence! She could not be so frantic!” exclaimed I, vehemently grasping his arm, as if to force him to unsay those hateful words.
“She did,” persisted he in the same grave, collected manner as before; “and not without reason,” he continued, gently disengaging himself from my grasp. “Mr. Huntingdon is ill.”
“And so she went to nurse him?”
“Yes.”
“Fool!” I could not help exclaiming, and Lawrence looked up with a rather reproachful glance. “Is he dying, then?”
“I think not, Markham.”
“And how many more nurses has he? How many ladies are there besides to take care of him?”
“None; he was alone, or she would not have gone.”
“Oh, confound it! This is intolerable!”