It was as if her finite human brain could only store a limit of information, details like hair color and fingernail shape easily jettisoned to make room for the nuances of a grin or the emotion of a shoulder blade. She wanted to stay where she was; but tears were dangerous; the more she wept, the weaker she would become defensively. He fell back upon the pillows with a little moan, clutching the slim white fingers fiercely. ‘Because,’ said Lady Bicknacre in the confidential manner of all matrons when passing on a tidbit of scandal, ‘Nicholas married against his father’s wishes and ran away. Once she had asked him: "Are you my father?" He had answered: "I am. Someone ought to be with him until the doctor arrives. But it was her proof. Remain at the door, Nab," he added, loitering for a moment behind the others, "and let no one in, or out.
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