'
Quick in all his motions, John was turning round to desire the women to
leave the room; when the sick man held him by the sleeve.
'Not now. I've not the strength. I've not the courage. May I tell it
when I have? May I write it, if I find that easier and better?'
'May you!' cried John. 'Why, Lewsome, what is this!'
'Don't ask me what it is. It's unnatural and cruel. Frightful to think
of. Frightful to tell. Frightful to know. Frightful to have helped in.
Let me kiss your hand for all your goodness to me. Be kinder still, and
don't ask me what it is!'
At first, John gazed at him in great surprise; but remembering how very
much reduced he was, and how recently his brain had been on fire with
fever, believed that he was labouring under some imaginary horror or
despondent fancy. For farther information on this point, he took an
opportunity of drawing Mrs Gamp aside, while Betsey Prig was wrapping
him in cloaks and shawls, and asked her whether he was quite collected
in his mind.
'Oh bless you, no!' said Mrs Gamp. 'He hates his nusses to this hour.
They always does it, sir.
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