Kirke never gave the situation a thought. He saw nothing but the duty
it claimed from him--a duty which the doctor's farewell words had put
plainly before his mind. Everything depended on the care taken of her,
under his direction, in that house. There was his responsibility, and he
unconsciously acted under it, exactly as he would have acted in a
case of emergency with women and children on board his own ship. He
questioned the landlady in short, sharp sentences; the only change in
him was in the lowered tone of his voice, and in the anxious looks which
he cast, from time to time, at the room where she lay.
"Do you understand what the doctor has told you?"
"Yes, sir."
"The house must be kept quiet. Who lives in the house?"
"Only me and my daughter, sir; we live in the parlors. Times have gone
badly with us since Lady Day. Both the rooms above this are to let."
"I will take them both, and the two rooms down here as well. Do you know
of any active trustworthy man who can run on errands for me?"
"Yes, sir. Shall I go--?"
"No; let your daughter go. You must not leave the house until the nurse
comes. Don't send the messenger up here. Men of that sort tread heavily.
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