“It was sewing; dress-making. And—there was sitting up at nights.”
“Who was the lady you served? What was her name?”
“I can’t tell it,” answered Jessy, her cheeks flushing to a wild hectic.
The surgeon suddenly turned the left hand towards him, and looked at the forefinger. It was smooth as ivory.
“Not much sign of sewing there, Jessy.”
She drew it under the clothes. “It is some little time since I did any; I was too ill,” she answered. “Mr. Duffham, I have told you all there is to tell. The place was too hard for me, and it made me ill.”
It was all she told. Duffham wondered whether it was, in substance, all she had to tell. He went down and entered the parlour with a grave face: Mr. Page, his daughters, and John Drench were there. The doctor said Jessy must have perfect rest, tranquillity, and the best of nourishment; and he would send some medicine. Abigail put a shawl over her head, and walked with him across the garden.
“You will tell me what your opinion is, Mr. Duffham.”
“Ay. It is no good one, Miss Abigail.”
“Is she very ill?”