So go up-stairs and get your things together while I look out for a hansom. He depended upon her, for his medicine, for his drink, for the little amusement it was now permissible to give him. She felt her chest trying to float up, but the blessed undertow, the dreaded reason why she was warned to never bathe in the ocean, sucked her feet down, putting the decision where it belonged, into the hands of God. “That sounds quite absurd,” she answered. “That doesn’t touch the question I asked you,” she said. She decided to call in the help of Teddy Widgett, or, failing him, of one of his sisters. Wanton! Had I been one, even God would have forgiven me, understanding.
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