Somehow, the sharpness did not offend me, though it was rare in Doctor Urquhart, who is usually extremely gentle in his way of speech.
I told him my cough was nothing—it was indeed as much nervousness as cold, though of course I did not confess that—and then another fit came on, leaving me all shaking and trembling.
“You ought not to have come: is there nobody to take better care of you, child?—No—don't speak. You must submit, if you please.”
He took off a plaid he had about him, and wrapped me up in it, close and warm. I resisted a little, and then yielded.—
“You must!”
What could one do but yield? Protesting again, I was bidden to “hold my tongue.”
“Never mind me!—I am used to all weathers;—I'm not a little delicate creature like you.”
I said, laughing, I was a great deal stronger than he had any notion of—but as he had begun our acquaintance by taking professional care of me, he might just as well continue it; and it certainly was a little colder here than it was that night at the Cedars.
“Yes.”
Here Colin came up, to say “we had better walk on to meet the carriage, rather than wait for it.” He and Doctor Urquhart exchanged a few words, then he took his mother on one arm—good Colin, he never neglects his old mother—and offered me the other.