The young gentlewoman rose and put her arms round Margaret's neck and kissed her. “I am woe for you,” she sighed. “You are a good soul; you have done me good—a little.” (A gulp came in her throat.) “Come again! come again!”
Margaret did come again, and talked with her, and gently, but keenly watched what topics interested her, and found there was but one. Then she said to the mayor, “I know your daughter's trouble, and 'tis curable.”
“What is't? the blood?”
“Nay.”
“The stomach?”
“Nay.”
“The liver?”
“Nay.”
“The foul fiend?”
“Nay.”