She gripped my arm and her hand was trembling.
“I tell you I am afraid. Sarah, you must let me stay here. I’ll sleep anywhere. I’ll sleep right here in this room.”
“No. No. You can’t do that!”
“I must stay in St. Ann’s. You can’t put me out bodily. I’ve got to stay.” I felt her shiver violently. “I cannot go through that terrible orchard again. I cannot sleep in Louis Letheny’s house to-night. There are ghosts, Sarah, ghosts—oh, you don’t know!”
“Ghosts! There are nothing of the kind.” I felt my scalp prickle as I spoke.
“Maybe not. Anyway, I must stay here.”
“No,” I repeated but she must have felt me weakening for she renewed her pleas, even promising to make herself eligible to a room in the hospital by having tonsillitis, if I insisted. She said she felt it coming on owing to her getting so wet and being bareheaded. Which was not only silly, as I assured her, but was not even to be believed, Corole being as sleek and healthy as a young jaguar, and about as even-tempered.
“But you can stay,” I relented, “if you will do as I say and keep quiet about it.”
“Heavens, yes!” agreed Corole fervently. “All I want to do is keep quiet about it. Shall I just stay right here in Eighteen? I am not afraid.” She moved toward the bed.
I grasped her cloak and jerked her back.