Give me your pulse, Mrs. Finch. I don't
like your pulse. Come up-stairs directly. A recumbent position, and
another warm bath--under Providence, Madame Pratolungo!--may parry the
Blow. Would you kindly open the door, and pick up Mrs. Finch's
handkerchief? Never mind the novel--the handkerchief."
I seized my first opportunity of speaking again, while Mr. Finch was
conducting his wife (with his arm round her waist) to the door--putting
the question which I had been waiting to ask, in this cautious form:
"Do you propose to communicate, sir, either with your daughter or with
Miss Batchford, while Lucilla is away from the rectory? My object in
venturing to ask----"
Before I could state my object, Mr. Finch turned round (turning Mrs.
Finch with him) and surveyed me from head to foot with a look of
indignant astonishment.
"Is it possible you can see this double Wreck," said Mr. Finch,
indicating his wife and child, "and suppose that I would communicate or
sanction communication of any sort, with the persons who are responsible
for it?--My dear! Can you account for Madame Pratolungo's extraordinary
question? Am I to understand (do _you_ understand) that Madame Pratolungo
is insulting me?"
It was useless to try to explain myself. It was useless for Mrs. Finch
(who had made several abortive efforts to put in a word or two, on her
own part) to attempt to pacify her husband.
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