"Anne?"
"Yes."
"Jerrold, to think that Anne should be with him and me not."
"Well, she'll be all right. She can stand things."
"It's all very well for Anne. He isn't her husband."
"You'd better go away, Mother."
"Not before you tell me how he is. Go in, Jerrold."
He knocked and went in.
His father was sitting up in his white, slender bed, raised on Eliot's arm. He saw his face, strained and smoothed with exhaustion, sallow white against the pillows, the back-drawn-mouth, the sharp, peaked nose, the iron grey hair, pointed with sweat, sticking to the forehead. A face of piteous, tired patience, waiting. He saw Eliot's face, close, close beside it by the edge of the pillow, grave and sombre and intent.
Anne was crossing the room from the bed to the washstand. Her face was very white but she had an air of great competence and composure. She carried a white basin brimming with a reddish froth. He saw little red specks splashed on the sleeve of her white linen gown. He shuddered.