The unpleasant oily chill of fever overtook her body, and she watched in horror as Sebastian carried her to his bed on his shoulder like a sack of flour. "What?—help take care of him? Why, you can't do that, Miss Enschede!" was the protest. She longed to own something lasting, anything, but knew her wishes to be stupid. I didn’t think—I don’t know what I thought. Ramage went up the Avenue, and she hurried along the path with a beating heart and a disagreeable sense of unsolved problems in her mind. She sat on the edge of the bed —the wardress was too busy with the flood of arrivals that day to discover that she had it down—and her skin was shivering from the contact of these garments. She forbade him to escape to his workshop in the basement during those times, denying him his one and only hobby.
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