"Hers is black. And this is—not black, you'll notice, sir, and—very long."
"Why, so 't is! But if it distresses you—there, away with it!"
"But whose is it?" I persisted.
"Lord, Perry, how should I know—why worry about such a trifle. Compose yourself, dear lad. I'll have 'em wake Julia, she was up with you all night—egad, she'll be overjoyed to see you so much better—"
"Pray no—don't disturb her. Have I been here long?"
"Nine days, Peregrine—touch and go—knocking at death's door, boy—and raving like any madman."
"What—what about, sir?" I questioned, beginning to tremble.
"A lot o' wild nonsense, Perry—"
"What, sir—what?" I demanded.
"There, there, lad—don't distress yourself. 'T was nothing to signify—mere sick fancies."