"Queer question," she said.
"But are we?"
"H'm. Difficult to say. But why do you ask? Is the daughter of a
courtesy Baron who died--of general disreputableness, I believe--before
his father--? I give it up. Does it matter?"
"No. My mind is confused. I want to know if you will marry me."
She whitened and said nothing. I suddenly felt I must plead with her.
"Damn these bandages!" I said, breaking into ineffectual febrile rage.
She roused herself to her duties as nurse. "What are you doing? Why are
you trying to sit up? Sit down! Don't touch your bandages. I told you
not to talk."
She stood helpless for a moment, then took me firmly by the shoulders
and pushed me back upon the pillow. She gripped the wrist of the hand I
had raised to my face.
"I told you not to talk," she whispered close to my face. "I asked you
not to talk. Why couldn't you do as I asked you?"
"You've been avoiding me for a month," I said.
"I know. You might have known. Put your hand back--down by your side."
I obeyed. She sat on the edge of the bed.
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