Just then an English voice spoke behind her and me.
"You are both standing in a draught; you must leave this corridor." "There is no draught, Dr.John," said I, turning.
"She takes cold so easily," he pursued, looking at Ginevra with extreme kindness.

"She is delicate; she must be cared for: fetch her a shawl." "Permit me to judge for myself," said Miss Fanshawe, with hauteur.

"I want no shawl." "Your dress is thin, you have been dancing, you are heated." "Always preaching," retorted she; "always coddling and admonishing." The answer Dr.John would have given did not come; that his heart was hurt became evident in his eye; darkened, and saddened, and pained, he turned a little aside, but was patient.

I knew where there were plenty of shawls near at hand; I ran and fetched one.
"She shall wear this, if I have strength to make her," said I, folding it well round her muslin dress, covering carefully her neck and her arms.

"Is that Isidore ?" I asked, in a somewhat fierce whisper.
She pushed up her lip, smiled, and nodded.
"Is _that_ Isidore ?" I repeated, giving her a shake: I could have given her a dozen.
"C'est lui-meme," said she.