CHAPTER 32
Guy Dearborn stood beside the bed of the latest admission to the plague-besieged hospital marquee. The Reverend Timothy Grafton was trying to maintain a cheerful disposition as Edith Kinnaird tried to lower his temperature by the application of cold flannels to his forehead. In the next bed lay poacher Billy Wragg, whose attendant nurse Christine Rigby was trying to get the man to take some nourishment of warm soup, without much success.
“I’m sorry to be such a bother to you all,” said the vicar.
“You’re no bother at all, Vicar,” Dearborn replied. “You’ve done your fair share of ministering to these poor folk in the past few days. It’s only fair that you get the best of attention now that you need it.”
“I suppose you think it’s my own fault, for having placed myself in such
