“Read it,” she said faintly. “I don’t know what is the matter with me. I can’t read it myself.”
It was a note of only four lines—so short and so careless that it quite struck me. If I remember correctly it contained no more than these words—
“ Dearest Laura , Please come whenever you like. Break the journey by sleeping at your aunt’s house. Grieved to hear of dear Marian’s illness. Affectionately yours, Frederick Fairlie .”
“I would rather not go there—I would rather not stay a night in London,” said her ladyship, breaking out eagerly with those words before I had quite done reading the note, short as it was. “Don’t write to Count Fosco! Pray, pray don’t write to him!”
Sir Percival filled another glass from the decanter so awkwardly that he upset it and spilt all the wine over the table. “My sight seems to be failing me,” he muttered to himself, in an odd, muffled voice. He slowly set the glass up again, refilled it, and drained it once more at a draught.