"And at what a cost?"
She nodded. "But you couldn't help telling me the truth."
"And if I bemoaned my loneliness, how my collars get lost in the wash, how tired I am of Eliza's cooking and her face, how bad my cough is, then you'd let me carry you away?"
"I might. Zebedee—are those things true, too?"
"Not particularly."
"And your cough isn't bad?"
He hesitated. "It is rather bad."
"And you're a doctor!"
"But my dear, darling, love—I've no control over the weather."
"You ought to go away," she said in a low voice.