If you'll kindly--er--retire and
send Patterson, I'll get dressed."
"Dressed?" echoed Mrs. Trapes, hollow-voiced and grim. "Get up? Lord,
Mr. Geoffrey!"
"Certainly. Why not?"
"What, you--you as is only jest out o' the valley o' th' shadder! You
as we've all give up for dead over an' over! You get up? Lord, Mr.
Geoffrey--I mean Ravenslee!"
"Oh," said Ravenslee, knitting his dark brows thoughtfully, "have I been
sick long?"
"Four weeks."
"Weeks!" he exclaimed, staring incredulously.
"Four weeks an' a bit! For four weary, woeful weeks you've been layin'
here with death hoverin' over you, Mr. Geoffrey. For four long weeks
we've been waitin' for ye t' draw your las' breath, Mr. Ravenslee. For
four 'eart-rendin' weeks your servants has been carryin' on below stairs
an' robbin' you somethin' shameful."
"My servants? Oh, yes, they generally do. But tell me--"
"The amount o' food as they consoom constant! The waste! The
extravagance! Th' beer an' wine an' sperrits they swaller! Them is sure
the thirstiest menials ever I heard tell of! An' the butler--such airs,
such a appetite! An' sherry an' bitters t' make it worse! Lord, Mr.
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