With difficulty I obeyed him.
Presently I stood within that clean, bright kitchen -- on the very hearth -- trembling, sickening;
conscious of an aspect in the last degree ghastly, wild, and weather-beaten.
The two ladies, their brother, Mr. St. John, the old servant, were all gazing at me.
"St. John, who is it?" I heard one ask.
"I cannot tell: I found her at the door," was the reply.
"She does look white," said Hannah.
"As white as clay or death," was responded. "She will fall: let her sit."
And indeed my head swam: I dropped, but a chair received me.
I still possessed my senses, though just now I could not speak.
"Perhaps a little water would restore her. Hannah, fetch some.
But she is worn to nothing. How very thin, and how very bloodless!"
"A mere spectre!" "Is she ill, or only famished?"
"Famished, I think. Hannah, is that milk? Give it me, and a piece of bread."