A meek voice, behind him, articulating high in
the air, said, "It's only me." The voice was followed by the prodigious
bodily apparition of Mrs. Wragge, with her cap all awry, and one of
her shoes in the next room. "Oh, look at her! look at her!" cried Mrs.
Wragge, in an ecstasy, dropping on her knees at Magdalen's bedside, with
a thump that shook the house. "Bless her heart, she's well enough to
laugh at me already. 'Cheer, boys, cheer--!' I beg your pardon, doctor,
my conduct isn't ladylike, I know. It's my head, sir; it isn't _me._ I
must give vent somehow, or my head will burst!" No coherent sentence,
in answer to any sort of question put to her, could be extracted that
morning from Mrs. Wragge. She rose from one climax of verbal confusion
to another--and finished her visit under the bed, groping inscrutably
for the second shoe.
The morrow came--and Mr. Merrick promised that she should see another
old friend on the next day. In the evening, when the inquiring voice
asked after her, as usual, and when the door was opened a few inches to
give the reply, she answered faintly for herself: "I am better, thank
you." There was a moment of silence--and then, just as the door was
shut again, the voice sank to a whisper, and said, fervently, "Thank
God!" Who was he? She had asked them all, and no one would tell her.
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