"Don't!"
"But I must know. It was me that did it. I was angry. I didn't know her heart was really bad. I'd like to tell her that, if she's going to die."
"You mustn't speak to her."
"But if she dies without knowing——"
Grace's soft eyes were scornful. "She knows all you could tell her, child! You'd kill her with your fussings, and I'm not going to let her die. She shall not. I want her."
"You're not the only one!"
"I must go back." Grace slipped into the room and Theresa sat down on the stairs, while tears of angry pain rolled into her neck. She disdained to dry them: their wetness and the after-stiffening of their channels were balm to soreness, and she could forget her fault in pity for herself, because no one understood her, because her feelings were such a torturing, yet somehow delightful medley, past the power of her own mind to unravel.
The doctor's report was immediately comforting, but not very hopeful for the future. Edward Webb learnt that his wife's heart was very weak, that all excitement and worry must be spared her, that a shock would probably kill her.
"She shall not have a shock," he said, lifting his grey face.
"She must be saved anxiety."