"She looks more dead than alive.

Bring her to the fire, Master Vivian.

I'll soon have some hot milk for the poor lamb." Caryl led her to an arm-chair that stood on one side of the blaze, and made her sit down.

Then, stooping, he took one of her nerveless hands and held it closely in his own.
He did not speak to her, and she was relieved by his forbearance.

As the warmth of his grasp gradually communicated itself to her numbed fingers, she felt her racing pulses grow steadier; but she was glad when he laid her hand down quietly in her lap and turned away.
He bent over her again in a few minutes with a cup of steaming milk.
She took it from him, tasted it, and shuddered.
"There is brandy in it." "Yes," said Caryl.
She turned her head away.
"I don't want it.