His fingers touched hers.
"Your hands are cold," she said to him. "Cold hands, warm heart," he
chattered.
A curious, wilful, rebellious look came into her eyes. "I shouldn't have
thought it in your case," she said, and with sudden resolve turned
towards the door. "I'll send Madame Bulteel," she added. "I'm going for a
walk."
She had betrayed herself so much, had shown so recklessly what she felt,
and yet, yet why did he not--she did not know what she wanted him to do.
It was all a great confusion. Vaguely she realized what had been working
in him, but yet the knowledge was dim indeed. She was a woman. In her
heart of hearts she knew that he did care for her, and yet in her heart
of hearts she denied that he cared.
She was suddenly angry with herself, angry with him, the poor blind man,
back from the Valley of the Shadow. She had not reached the door,
however, when Madame Bulteel entered the room.
"The doctor from New York has come," she said, holding out a note from
Dr. Rockwell. "He will be here in a couple of hours."
Fleda turned back towards the bed.
"Good luck!" she said. "You'll see, it will be all right."
"Certainly I'll see if it's all right," he said cheerfully. "Am I tidy?
Have I used Pears' soap?" He would have his joke at his own funeral if
possible.
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