He stops. He can't finish that thought, and in spite of himself, his eyes well up. His expression is that of someone who has to say something, but doesn't know how to begin.
Under Herbert's hand, he's shaking, the coughing percussive and resounding and wet, too wet. When he pulls the rag away from his lips, it's so saturated that it's soaked through to his hand, and he looks at it in horror before looking to Herbert.
"...My dear, I...." He stops, hesitating. "There is...there are things...I will need you to do for me. But you...you aren't going to like them. And I need you to - hhhh! - to listen."
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He stops. He can't finish that thought, and in spite of himself, his eyes well up. His expression is that of someone who has to say something, but doesn't know how to begin.
Under Herbert's hand, he's shaking, the coughing percussive and resounding and wet, too wet. When he pulls the rag away from his lips, it's so saturated that it's soaked through to his hand, and he looks at it in horror before looking to Herbert.
"...My dear, I...." He stops, hesitating. "There is...there are things...I will need you to do for me. But you...you aren't going to like them. And I need you to - hhhh! - to listen."