And she was doing it, not as a philosopher, but with the beautiful unconcern of a child.
Suddenly, as if impelled by an emotion in direct contradiction to her apparent lack of sympathy, she reached out a hand and placed it on Kent's forehead.

It was another shock.

It was not a professional touch, but a soft, cool little pressure that sent a comforting thrill through him.

The hand was there for only a moment, and she withdrew it to entwine the slim fingers with those of the others in her lap.
"You have no fever," she said.

"What makes you think you are dying ?" Kent explained what was happening inside him.