He put some shadow under his eyes to
look more like an invalid. He had got used to his own cadaverous tint, so
that seemed insufficient.
The farmer's wife looked at him, and hesitated.
"Well, sir," said she, with a blush, "we takes 'em in to cure, not to--"
"Not to bury," said Monckton. "Don't you be alarmed. I have got no time
to die; I'm too busy. Why, I have been much worse than this. I am
convalescent now."
"Ye don't say so, sir!" said she. "Well, I see your heart is good" (the
first time he had ever been told that), "and so I've a mind to risk it."
Then she quickly clapped on ten shillings a week more for color, and he
was installed. He washed his face, and then the woman conceived hopes of
him, and expressed them in rustic fashion. "Well," said she, "dirt is a
disguise. Now I look at you, you have got more mischief to do in the
world yet, I do believe."
"A deal more, I hope," said he.
It now occurred to him, all of a sudden, that really he was not in good
health, and that he had difficulties before him which required calm
nerves, and that nerves are affected by the stomach.
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