She was not hurt much, she said in answer to my question, but she felt stiff in every limb, and the dampness seemed to have soaked through to her very bones. How was I, and what had happened?
I answered the two questions in almost the same breath. Brevity is not only the soul of wit, but it is the sole method of carrying on a conversation when both parties are wet and shivering.
"Have you any idea where we are?" Moira asked.
I shook my head and then, remembering that my answer was unintelligible in the darkness, I said, "I haven't. We fell over a cliff or a precipice, and that's all I can say about it."
"Why," she said, "you're shivering!" And she put out her hand to touch me. Her fingers came to rest on my arm, and I could feel her stiffen in the dark.
"Jim, why did you do it?" she demanded, with yet a curious softness in her voice.
"Do what?" I fenced.
"As if I don't know that you're in your shirt sleeves. That's your coat that's wrapped round me."
"What if it is?"
"You shouldn't have done it. You'll catch your death of cold."