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The old Italian woman looked very ill. Her form was shrunken, her face thin and white, her eyes unnaturally large. Evidently the misty climate of the midlands chilled her to the bone. She had developed a hacking cough, and shook with ague when the east wind tormented Beorminster. Herrick was shocked at the change which had taken place in her appearance during these few short weeks. Apparently Petronella was not long for this world. But the near approach of death did not appal her; she was terribly lonely, now that her mistress was gone.
"Signor Dottore," she croaked when Herrick made his appearance, "you have come to see me. That is good. But you will not cure me. No. I am dead Signor. Dio mio! what does it matter? " and she ended with a characteristic shrug, punctuated with a cough.