"He is dead."
The words seemed to come from her without grief, without any feeling. She felt nothing but a dull, dragging pain under her left breast, as if the doors of her heart were closed and its chambers full to bursting.
"No. He is not dead."
Her heart beat again.
"He's dying, then."
"They don't know."
"Where is he?"
"At Scarby."
"Scarby? How much time have I?"
"There's a train at ten-twenty. Can you be ready in five—seven minutes?"