If you choose to die yourself, it's downright wicked to bring death to us.

Oh, go, that I may get out of here." Lord Hartledon, to pacify her, left the room, and the countess-dowager rushed forth and bolted herself into her own apartments.
Was she mad, or making a display of affectation, or genuinely afraid?
wondered Lord Hartledon aloud, as he went up to his chamber.

Hedges gave it as his opinion that she was really afraid, because she had been as bad as this when she first heard of the illness, before his lordship arrived.
Val retired to rest laughing: it was a good joke to him.
But it was no joke to the countess-dowager, as he found to his cost when the morning came.

She got him out of his chamber betimes, and commenced a "fumigating" process.

The clothes he had worn she insisted should be burnt; pleading so piteously that he yielded in his good nature.
But there was to be a battle on another score.