“You don’t mean what you said to our Matilda yesterday, do you, father?” she asked aggressively.
“Yes,” he replied.
“What, that you’ll alter your will?”
“Yes.”
“You won’t,” said his angry daughter.
But he looked at her with a malevolent little smile.
“Annie!” he shouted. “Annie!”
He had still power to make his voice carry. The servant maid came in from the kitchen.
“Put your things on, and go down to Whittle’s office, and say I want to see Mr. Whittle as soon as he can, and will he bring a will-form.”
The sick man lay back a little—he could not lie down. His daughter sat as if she had been struck. Then she left the room.