He came into the
dark stuffy place.
"Yes," said Martha. "Just after Christmas. Brain-fever, the doctors
said. They thought she'd die for weeks. Had two doctors . . . You
can't see her, sir," she ended grumpily.
Then Aunt Anne appeared, coming through the green-baize door.
"Why, Mathew," she said. Mathew thought how ill she looked.
"They're all ill here," he said to himself.
"So Maggie's ill," he said, dropping his eyes before her as he
always did.
"Yes," Aunt Anne answered. "She was very ill indeed, poor child. I'm
glad to see you, Mathew. It's a long time since you've been."
He thought she was gentler to him than she had been, so, mastering
his fear of her, fingering his collar, he said:
"Can't I see her?"
"Well, I'm not . . . I think you might. It might do her good. She
wants taking out of herself. She comes down for an hour or two every
day now. I'll go and see." She left him standing alone there. He
looked around him, sniffing like a dog. How he hated the house and
everything in it! Always had . . . You could smell that fellow
Warlock's trail over everything. The black cat, Tom, came slipping
along, looked for a moment as though he would rub himself against
Mathew's stout legs, then decided that he would not.
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