escaped him. My dread that he might yet discover it, if I allowed him any more time to think, stimulated me to such an amazing degree, that I struggled into a sitting position⁠—seized, really seized, the writing materials by my side, and produced the letter as rapidly as if I had been a common clerk in an office. “Dearest Laura, Please come, whenever you like. Break the journey by sleeping in London at your aunt’s house. Grieved to hear of dear Marian’s illness. Ever affectionately yours.” I handed these lines, at arm’s length, to the Count⁠—I sank back in my chair⁠—I said, “Excuse me⁠—I am entirely prostrated⁠—I can do no more. Will you rest and lunch downstairs? Love to all, and sympathy, and so on. Good -morning.”