The tone in which she said these words was quite new--it was not
submissive, it was not defensive, it was indifferent.
She must be ill. He came close to the bed.
"Do you realise the time?" he asked. "Twenty minutes past seven. I'm sure
you don't want to keep me waiting."
She didn't answer him. Certainly she must be ill. There was something
strange about her eyes.
"You _must_ be ill," he repeated. "You look ill. Why didn't you say
so? Have you got a headache?"
"I'm not ill. I haven't got a headache, and I'm not coming to Early
Service."
"You're not ill, and you're not coming..." he stammered in his amazement.
"You've forgotten. There isn't late Celebration."
She gave him no answer, but turned on her side, closing her eyes.
He came right up to the bed, frowning down upon her.
"Amy--what does this mean? You're not ill, and yet you're not coming to
Celebration? Why? I insist upon an answer."
She said nothing.
He felt that anger, of which he had tried now for many years to beware,
flooding his throat.
With tremendous self-control he said quietly: "What is the matter with
you, Amy? You must tell me at once.
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