Sebastian was gone and another doctor came to bleed her, to rid her of the black humors that were causing the plague. She held out her hand frankly. He felt that he might soon be separated—perhaps, for ever—from the fond little creature he held in his arms, whom he had always regarded with the warmest fraternal affection, and the thought of how much she would suffer from the separation so sensibly affected him, that he could not help joining in her grief. She had been obliged to spend the night in that fateful bedchamber, the faithful Kimble—who had foraged at a nearby inn, bringing back a large pie and a jug of porter for his mistress—guarding the door outside. They conversed, or more or less she interviewed him. After the dance, they went to a party.
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