"Marguerite," he said gently, holding my hand, "I don't want to frighten you. As you say, your white, rose-leaf face and hands may be the result of the great heat, but—I think it well to have another opinion. It cannot do you any harm, it may do you good, and at any rate it will satisfy me."
MARGUERITE, I DON'T WANT TO FRIGHTEN YOU
"Very well," I said, laying my face on his hand for a moment, "but I—am frightened."
"I know," he replied. "I have seen fear, sickening anxiety, written on the faces of many of my patients when the great specialist—the man who will pronounce their doom or otherwise—has entered the room, only to be followed by a great joy. We must hope and pray that this joy will be yours. It must be," he said almost savagely, getting up and kicking over his chair. "You are too young always to lie still." The last words were muttered to himself but I caught them, and a momentary darkness rose before my eyes, but I brushed it away as something tangible.
"You—but you do think it will be well with me, Dr. Renton?" and the bitter entreaty of my cry startled my own ears.
Voices came across the garden, and mother and Peter appeared through the gate.
Dr. Renton hesitated a moment, and then went to meet them.
My question remained unanswered.