Even through the thickness of cloth
jacket and silk shirt she was aware of their lifelessness and chill.
This roused rebellion in her. Her instinct was for fight. She made a
return on McCabe's suggestion regarding further advice. She would
demand a consultation, call in expert opinion. The dear man with the
blue eyes--here her white face flushed rosy--would manage all that for
her, and compel help in the form of the last word of medical science
and skill.
"Might not your letter be put off for just a few days?" she pleaded, "in
case--until"--
But Charles Verity broke in before she could finish her tender protest,
a sadness, even hint of bitterness in his tone.
"You covet this thing so much," he said. "Your heart is so set on it?"
She made haste to reassure him.--No, no not that way, not for her. How
could it signify, save on his account? She only cared because greedy of
his advancement, greedy to have him exalted--placed where he belonged, on
the summit, the apex, so that all must perceive and acknowledge his
greatness.
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