Breakfast was scarcely over when a servant from Netherfield brought the following note for Elizabeth: “MY DEAREST LIZZY,— “I find myself very unwell this morning, which, I suppose, is to be imputed to my getting wet through yesterday.
Mr. Wickham was the happy man towards whom almost every female eye was turned, and Elizabeth was the happy woman by whom he finally seated himself; and the agreeable manner in which he immediately fell into conversation, though it was only on its being a wet night, made her feel that the commonest, dullest, most threadbare topic might be rendered interesting by the skill of the speaker.
‘As wet as ever,’ said Alice in a melancholy tone: ‘it doesn’t seem to dry me at all.’
I quickly collected some branches, but they were wet and would not burn.
The wet wood which I had placed near the heat dried and itself became inflamed.
I covered it carefully with dry wood and leaves and placed wet branches upon it; and then, spreading my cloak, I lay on the ground and sank into sleep.
Their first supposition was that it was the corpse of some person who had been drowned and was thrown on shore by the waves, but on examination they found that the clothes were not wet and even that the body was not then cold.
How do I know that you have been getting yourself very wet lately, and that you have a most clumsy and careless servant girl?”
The young man pulled his chair up and pushed his wet feet out towards the blaze.
“And very wet it seems to have made you,” said Holmes laying his hand upon the arm of the pea-jacket.