"No," she said.
He continued to stare at her.
"Is he—good to you?" he said.
The words came with difficulty. She saw his throat working with the convulsive effort to produce sound.
Curtis touched her arm. "Give him this!"
She took a cup from his hand, and held it to the swollen lips. But he could not swallow. The liquid trickled down into his beard.
"He's past it," murmured Curtis.
"Sybil!" The words came with a hard, rending sound. "Is he—good to you?"
She was wiping away the spilt drops with infinite, unfaltering tenderness.
"Yes, dear," she answered. "He is very good to me."