"What of?"
"Of some awful thing happening and of my not having the nerve to face it."
"You've nerve enough for anything."
"You don't know me. I'm an utter coward. I can't face things. Especially the thing I'm afraid of."
"What is it? Tell me." He leaned nearer to her, and she almost whispered.
"I'm afraid of his having a fit—epilepsy. He might have it."
"He might. But he won't. You mustn't think of it."
"I'm always thinking of it. And the most—the most awful thing is that—I'm afraid of seeing it."
She bowed her head and looked away from him as if she had confessed to an unpardonable shame.
"Poor child. Of course you are," said Prothero. "We're all afraid of something. I'm afraid, if you'll believe it, of the sight of blood."