“I should never have sent him…to…to London…It was wrong…I should—” “It wasn’t you,” Mary says soothingly. “It was John.” Agnes’s head, lolling on its neck, snaps round to face her. “It was me,” she mutters, teeth clenched. “It was John,” Mary insists. Agnes shakes her head. “I shan’t make it through,” she gasps. She grips Mary by the hand, her fingers pressing painful spots into the flesh. “Will you take care of them? You and Eliza. Will you?”
