How unlike were both the types to
Dulcie Clay, with her waved Madonna hair, dark skin, large, clear blue
eyes, softened by eyelashes of extraordinary length. Her chin was very
small, her mouth fine, rather thin; she had a pathetic expression; one
could imagine her attending, helping, nursing, holding a child in her
arms, but not his intellectual equal, guiding and directing like his
mother; and without the social brilliance and charm of Edith.
* * * * *
Seeing him looking at her with a long, observant look, Dulcie became
nervous and trembled slightly. She waited for him to speak.
'Come here, Miss Clay. I want to speak to you.'
Instantly she sat down by him.
'I wanted to say--you've been most awfully kind to me.'
Dulcie murmured something.
'I'm nearly well now--aren't I?'
'Dr Wood says you can go out driving next week.'
'Yes; but I don't mean that. I mean, I'm well in myself?'
He spoke quickly, almost impatiently.
'The doctor says you're still suffering from nervous shock;' she
answered in a toneless voice, professionally.
'Still, very soon I shan't need any attendance that a valet or a
housekeeper couldn't give me, shall I?'
'No, I suppose not.
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