TO
MY BROTHER HUBERT GALSWORTHY
SALVATION OF A FORSYTE
I
Swithin Forsyte lay in bed. The corners of his mouth under his white moustache drooped towards his double chin. He panted:
“My doctor says I'm in a bad way, James.”
His twin-brother placed his hand behind his ear. “I can't hear you. They tell me I ought to take a cure. There's always a cure wanted for something. Emily had a cure.”