“From what I see of the case,” he ended, “narcotism is the only thing I should be much afraid of. He may wear through even without much food. There’s a good deal of strength in him.”

“You look ill yourself, Mr. Lydgate⁠—a most unusual, I may say unprecedented thing in my knowledge of you,” said Bulstrode, showing a solicitude as unlike his indifference the day before, as his present recklessness about his own fatigue was unlike his habitual self-cherishing anxiety. “I fear you are harassed.”

“Yes, I am,” said Lydgate, brusquely, holding his hat, and ready to go.

“Something new, I fear,” said Bulstrode, inquiringly. “Pray be seated.”