I am not strong, though the cough is quieter without the least doubt.
And this time also I shall not die, perhaps.

Indeed, I do think not.
That darling Robert carried me into the carriage, swathed past possible breathing, over face and respirator in woollen shawls.

No, he wouldn't set me down even to walk up the fiacre steps, but shoved me in upside down, in a struggling bundle--I struggling for breath--he accounting to the concierge for 'his murdered man' (rather woman) in a way which threw me into fits of laughter afterwards to remember.

'Elle se porte tres bien! elle se porte extremement bien.

Ce n'est rien que les poumons.' Nothing but lungs! No air in them, which was the worst! Think how the concierge must have wondered ever since about 'cet original d'Anglais,' and the peculiar way of treating wives when they are in excellent health.