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68. CHAPTER LXVIII (continued)
Philip grew worse. As the night came on he became slightly delirious, but towards morning he awoke from a restless sleep. He saw Griffiths get out of an arm-chair, go down on his knees, and with his fingers put piece after piece of coal on the fire. He was in pyjamas and a dressing-gown.
"What are you doing here?" he asked.
"Did I wake you up? I tried to make up the fire without making a row."
"Why aren't you in bed? What's the time?"
"About five. I thought I'd better sit up with you tonight. I brought an arm-chair in as I thought if I put a mattress down I should sleep so soundly that I shouldn't hear you if you wanted anything."
"I wish you wouldn't be so good to me," groaned Philip. "Suppose you catch it?"
"Then you shall nurse me, old man," said Griffiths, with a laugh.
In the morning Griffiths drew up the blind. He looked pale and tired after his night's watch, but was full of spirits.
"Now, I'm going to wash you," he said to Philip cheerfully.
"I can wash myself," said Philip, ashamed.
"Nonsense. If you were in the small ward a nurse would wash you, and I can do it just as well as a nurse."
Philip, too weak and wretched to resist, allowed Griffiths to wash his hands and face, his feet, his chest and back. He did it with charming tenderness, carrying on meanwhile a stream of friendly chatter; then he changed the sheet just as they did at the hospital, shook out the pillow, and arranged the bed-clothes.
"I should like Sister Arthur to see me. It would make her sit up. Deacon's coming in to see you early."
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