“No, you didn’t; you wanted to read your book. What is it?”
“It is a French book called ‘Consuelo.’”
“French! Oh, of course—something too learned for me!”
“It is not learned at all. I’ll translate it to you if you like; but I don’t think you would care much about it.”
“Oh, no; it would be over my head, of course!”
His voice was growing very feeble and husky. Annie poured some medicine into a glass and brought it to him.
“Now,” said she, coaxingly, as she slipped her hand under his pillow to raise his head, “you had better drink this, and then lie still for a little while. You are not very strong yet, you know.”
“I sha’n’t drink it—I won’t have that vile stuff poured down my throat!” said he, in a weak, dogged whisper.
“You had better take it. Can’t you feel how weak your voice is getting?” said Annie, persuasively.
“I won’t take that, I tell you! That won’t do—do me—any good! Fetch me some brandy-and-soda.”