He worries her, poor man, sitting there and asking her
every two minutes how she feels. I've persuaded him to go to his room, and
I think it might do him good if you went and had a bit o' talk with him.'
I mounted at once to the second-floor sitting-room, and found
Christopherson sunk upon a chair, his head falling forwards, the image of
despairing misery. As I approached he staggered to his feet. He took my
hand in a shrinking, shamefaced way, and could not raise his eyes. I
uttered a few words of encouragement, but they had the opposite effect to
that designed.
'Don't tell me that,' he moaned, half resentfully. 'She's dying--she's
dying--say what they will, I know it.'
'Have you a good doctor?'
'I think so--but it's too late--it's too late.'
As he dropped to his chair again I sat down by him. The silence of a minute
or two was broken by a thunderous rat-tat at the house-door. Christopherson
leapt to his feet, rushed from the room; I, half fearing that he had gone
mad, followed to the head of the stairs.
In a moment he came up again, limp and wretched as before.
'It was the postman,' he muttered. 'I am expecting a letter.'
Conversation seeming impossible, I shaped a phrase preliminary to
withdrawal; but Christopherson would not let me go.
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