“I suppose it isn’t.”
“We can move her to the front room.”
Catherine had caught John Tugler’s meaning. She was kneeling beside the bed, her eyes fixed on the little man’s plebeian but good-natured face.
“Move her, Mrs. Murchison.”
“At once?”
“Yes. She must be kept absolutely quiet; no light, no noise.”
Catherine looked at him almost helplessly. A train was clanging over the iron bridge, and the caged dove cooed irrepressibly, a living symbol of vexatious sentimentalism.
“There will be less noise in the front room.”
Her husband nodded.
“We can have straw put down.”