Her hands were in the pockets of her brown woollen coat, her shoulders were lifted towards her ears; she was less beautiful than he had ever seen her, yet in her kindest moments she had not seemed so near to him. He was elated by this discovery; he did not seek its cause and, had he done so, he was not acute enough to see that hitherto the feelings she had shown him had been chiefly feigned, and that this real resentment, marking her face with petulance, revealed her nature to be common with his own.
"But you've not told me what you came for," he said.
She was reluctant, but she spoke. "To ask you to do something for us."
"You know I'll do it."
Still sulky, she took a few steps and leaned against the house wall; she had the look of a boy caught in a fault.
"We want the doctor."
"Who's ill?"
"It's Notya."
"What's the matter?"
"I don't know." She forgot her grievance. "I don't like thinking of it. It makes me sick."