After Such Kindness Part 11

'You think I will go out to dine with my precious child at death's door?' He gave me that same uncomprehending look. 'Are you so cold as to think me capable of that?'

I reddened. It seemed everything I said only incriminated me further. 'Well, then, Daniel, perhaps you will go to Herefords.h.i.+re with Mrs McQueen and the children? In that case I will stay and look after Daisy.'

'You know that is not possible. I have too many duties here.'

'Then what I have suggested is the only solution. Unless we get in a fever nurse from the hospital.'

'I will not have a stranger caring for our child,' said Daniel.

'She would be a trained nurse,' I argued. 'Dr Lawrence would be sure to recommend a good one.'

'What can a fever nurse do that a loving parent cannot, and a thousand times more carefully at that? Don't you remember when Sarah was so ill? How both of watched at the bedside all night until the fever broke? How neither of us could sleep, or would have done, until we knew she was past danger? How would you give less loving care to Daisy?'

His words stung me with their truth, but I was angry that he could not see my dilemma. 'What is the point of John Jameson having saved Benjy from drowning if we expose him to scarlet fever instead? Daisy is eleven, and with G.o.d's grace will survive it. But Benjy is young. Dr Lawrence himself urged me to take him away. The risk is too great.'

He turned to me, and for a moment there was something like hatred in his eyes. 'You've never loved Daisy, have you? I was blind to it until now.'

I was appalled. 'Daniel! How can you say that?'

'Because it is true. I see it now as clear as day. I think you blame her for separating us in the flesh. But she shall have one parent at least who will do his duty. I will nurse Daisy myself. She shall lack for nothing while I am here. And now I will go and see her.' And he sprang up the stairs and I heard him go into the sickroom and shut the door.

I hardly had the desire to pack our belongings after that, and Christiana, Sarah and Mrs McQueen were left to their own devices as I lay down on the sofa in the dark, and tried to fathom Daniel's meaning. Did I really blame Daisy for putting an end to the happiest part of our married life? It's true that I'd suffered dreadful pain when she was born, and in the weeks that followed, it was hard for me to look on her with love, when all I wanted to do was to die. She was so small and thin, and yet she seemed to suck the life out of me. So when Daniel told me that we must have no more children, I think at first I was glad. And later, if anyone blamed Daisy for our straitened love-making, it was surely Daniel. It was he who found celibacy almost beyond endurance. It was he who tried to exhaust himself with more parish duties than ever clergyman attempted, as well as lengthy night-time Bible readings and long vigils of prayer. He also doused himself in cold water, and mortified his flesh with cords, but these chastis.e.m.e.nts seemed only to add to his excitement. And that dreadful night of Benjy's conception I cannot say he forced me that is too strong a word but he tempted me beyond my will to resist. Afterwards, when we lay naked on the dishevelled sheets, he looked at me and quite broke down: 'Oh, Evelina, I am a wicked, wicked man! I have risked what I love most in the world and I deserve to be punished. I cannot undo what I have done, but if G.o.d sees my true repentance, He might have mercy on me!' And he made me take the cords and scourge him there and then. And when he was satisfied, we both kneeled quietly and prayed.

It seemed at first as if G.o.d had decided to punish us. I did indeed conceive a child, and was wretchedly ill for the entire nine months. And when it came to my labour, my nightgown and bedsheets were saturated in scarlet, and the baby himself seemed swaddled in my very flesh as they pulled him from me. But G.o.d was gracious, and we both survived; and since then, Daniel and I have kept ourselves strictly apart. And yet Daniel seemingly believes that it is I who harbours resentment against poor Daisy for what was, after all, the outcome of his own l.u.s.tful desire.

15.

DANIEL BAXTER.

The family has gone, and I'm alone with Daisy. Hannah is here, of course, but she's happier being sent out on errands or doing the cleaning, than sitting patiently by the bedside. That particular occupation is a labour of love, and one I keep jealously to myself. In Daisy's presence, I feel my doubts being set aside, my soul-sickness a.s.suaged. And although I am in agony that this fever may bear her away, I feel blessed that I am able to watch over her like this, touching her fine, pale skin, kissing her sweet eyelids. With every touch, I find myself praying more devoutly. The prayer comes up from nowhere, like a fresh mountain spring, and I am bathed in its healing powers. I pray as I lean over her in the fading dusk; I pray in my sleep as the candle gutters beside me; I pray on my knees by her bedside at dawn. But, even as I prostrate myself on the floor, I know it is not through these my own efforts that I will be heard. I am a base sinner. But Daisy's grace and innocence may yet wash me clean.

She has the prayers of others, of course, and maybe the weight of their united voices will tip the balance of divine mercy. Mrs Carmichael arrived at the front door with a bottle of soothing medicine the minute she heard, and messages have poured in from people offering to undertake duties of every kind. The bishop has arranged that my curate should officiate at Divine Service during the week, and the churchwardens have given me temporary dispensation from my other duties. It's not long since scarlet fever last swept through the city and everyone on the vestry committee knows of a child who was afflicted, or indeed, who perished. 'We will pray daily for her, and for you,' said Mr Attwood, the senior churchwarden, grasping both my hands, as the good fellow he is. 'I know what it's like, sir; Louisa and I have lost two of our dear ones. It really shakes you about.' I tried to thank him, to appreciate his sincere fellow-feeling, but the thought of his children's deaths did not console me and I fear I may have been abrupt. Mr Attwood makes me ashamed. He's a simple ironmonger and has never stood in the pulpit sermonizing on the importance of the Apostolic Succession, but I have no doubt that of the two of us he is the morally superior man. And that awareness makes me quail. If a man of such exemplary life has not been spared the loss of a child then surely I, with my sins so heavy on my head, will not escape punishment.

But as I look down now on Daisy's flushed and fevered face, I wonder why, if there is indeed a Divine Being, He should, of all things, choose to punish me through a little child? Why should my sins mean that Daisy should be the one to suffer? She is the one who brought me love and hope when I was in despair. I stroke her lovely face and take her in my arms. 'Please, G.o.d, let her live.'

At lunchtime, Hannah comes up with a letter from Evelina. I stare at it, blankly; it's like a missive from another world. Once I would have torn open any letter from her, eager to devour every word. But a shadow has fallen across the open landscape of our love. It is my fault, I own it; but although it seems that G.o.d has forgiven me for my error, Evelina has not. She turns from me every night, and won't listen to my entreaties that we might enjoy at least a chaste embrace. 'I cannot trust myself,' she says. But I know I am the one she cannot trust.

I read the letter. She writes that Benjamin has shown no sign of fever and that she intends to come back to Oxford very soon.

You do not write and I cannot sleep for worrying about Daisy. She is very dear to me, and I a.s.sure you that I have never held her responsible for any change in our married love. We must both acknowledge that G.o.d is now asking for a different sacrifice from us. We are not the same people we once were, and we cannot return to the heady days of our youth but I hope I have never given you reason to think I am not a good wife and mother.

So, she is repenting, as well she might. But I don't want her disturbing the calm and loving routine that Hannah and I have established here. I don't want her fussing at the bedside with jugs and bowls and kettles and lists of linen and banis.h.i.+ng me to the emptiness of my study like an Adam cast out from Eden. I don't want Evelina to be the one to mop Daisy's brow and comb her tangled hair, or kiss her sweet neck and soft eyelids. I want Daisy to myself, just the two of us in peace and quietness, in the heavenly blue of her own little room. I'm nursing her as gently as any woman; better, I believe. Daisy doesn't need Evelina, I am sure of it. She only needs me.

I write to my wife exhorting her to remain where she is. It is too early to return, I say. She needs to think first of our son, and her own aged father. I am caring for Daisy in every way she requires.

I've been watching over her for two days, now. Two days in which she has lain almost motionless on her pillow, her short hair damp and matted against her brow, her cheeks flushed, the skin around her mouth eerily pale. The rash is everywhere on her body, like sunburn, but it feels as rough as sandpaper to the touch. 'The rash will last for six days,' Dr Lawrence said. 'But the fever is what I fear, and the closing of the throat. Keep her cool. Open the windows to freshen the air. Change her clothes as often as you can and wash everything in chloride of lime.'

Hannah has duly rendered the sickroom as spotless as a farmhouse dairy. With the utmost quietness and industry she has washed the walls and the windows, taken up the rug and scrubbed the floorboards. She has even rubbed a disinfectant cloth over Daisy's books. 'Dirt gets itself in everywhere,' she said, and I nodded. I have always been very much against dirt and very much for the invigorating moral virtues of cold water, and I liked to see her so well-employed. She has a shapely form as she kneels and bends with her brush and pail.

Today she is bustling about again, wiping a carbolic rag around the grate. 'Oh, my, what's this doing here?' she says, lifting up a red object from behind the fire screen. 'Isn't it Miss Daisy's writing-book?' It is indeed the journal which Evelina and I presented to her on her birthday. That day seems more like a century away, yet at the same time I can recall it in perfect clarity everyone in their finery, Benjamin in Nettie's arms, John in his dark suit, and Daisy in her white summer dress, eager to receive her gift, then disappointed with it, and bravely pretending all was well.

Like Hannah, I wonder what the journal is doing in the grate. Perhaps Daisy has abandoned it; after all, she'd been much more delighted with the parasol. But she isn't a careless child. If it was behind the screen, she must have put it there deliberately. Perhaps she hasn't written a word and wanted to conceal the fact from her prying papa. She seemed quite alarmed when I asked if I could read it.

'Put it here,' I say, indicating the small table by the bedside. I don't wish to open the book in Hannah's presence. In fact, I know I shouldn't open it at all.

'Oh, look, there's things inside it,' says Hannah, nearly letting slip a sheet of paper and what looks like a photograph or two, before pus.h.i.+ng them back where they came from. 'Be careful, Mr Baxter, it's all a bit loose.'

'I'll be careful,' I say, taking it from her. 'Now, isn't it time we changed Daisy's sheets?'

That is something we do twice a day. Nothing can be too clean for Daisy. I carefully take the child's limp weight in my arms and carry her to the open window where I sit with her on my lap so that the breeze is in our faces, while Hannah strips the bed and puts on the new, bleached linen. I can see the sheets billowing out from the corner of my eye as Hannah shakes them onto the bed, but my gaze never wavers from Daisy's face. The summer daylight seems to make her skin almost transparent, and as pure as the holy wafer. I kiss her again and again, feeling I might almost consume her loveliness, just as I consume the body of Our Lord in the Eucharist. I hardly want the moment to end, to relinquish her soft limbs to the uncaring bedstead. But relinquish her I do, and lay her back on the mattress so that Hannah can wash her. She inches off Daisy's nightgown, sponging her skin on her chest and belly, and then along the inside of her legs. She is flesh of my flesh; it is not wrong to gaze upon her. But she is so touchingly beautiful, even with the rash upon her, that I am conscious of a tremor that I cannot control.

Then, when Daisy is newly clothed and freshly covered with a clean sheet, Hannah departs with the bundled-up linen and I draw up my chair to the bedside once more. I take a comb and gently part her hair, drawing it back from her forehead and cheeks. She must have felt the touch of the comb, because she opens her eyes slightly, and murmurs, 'Are you still cross with me about my hair?'

I'm overcome with shame that, even in her fever, she is preoccupied with such a trivial matter. 'Oh, no, my dear one,' I say. 'Not cross at all. Never think that. Never, never, never.' But she closes her eyes again and slips back into that feverish state when she can neither hear nor speak. And once more I fall to the prayers that I hardly believe in and yet dare not let lapse for a second, in case the Devil creeps in and confounds me. Dear Lord, let her live. Dear G.o.d, let my little child live! Don't let my sins lie upon her. Don't visit my sins unto the next generation. I pray, and pray again, opening my eyes only to make sure that Daisy is still breathing, watching the rise and fall of her chest, so slight that at times I am almost persuaded it has stopped, and I have to bend low against her to sense the tremulous flutter.

From time to time, my eyes fall upon the journal sitting on the bedside table, its bright red covers contrasting with the scrubbed bareness of the sickroom. It has been well used, that is clear. And, as Hannah noted, there are loose papers placed between the pages. Perhaps I should tidy it. Glance at it a little, maybe. But before I can lay a finger on it, I hear the door knocker and the sound of voices downstairs: Hannah and yes John Jameson. I get up as quietly as I can and go out onto the landing. John is standing in the porch, his hat in his hand. 'I won't intrude,' he's saying. 'But I am desperate to know how she is.'

'It's the scarlet fever, sir,' Hannah replies. 'Dr Lawrence said it's definite. All we can do is wait and hope for the best. Mr Baxter's up there now.'

But John has spotted me. 'T-Tell me I am not to blame, Daniel,' he says in an agitated fas.h.i.+on, moving forward into the hall. 'I am overcome with the fear I may have exposed her to some malign influence. There are infective p-particles you know, in the air and in the water. Goodness knows what harm they may do.'

What things the man thinks of. 'I don't know about particles,' I say somewhat sharply as I come down the stairs. 'But have you taken her near Jericho? Mrs Baxter says it is the only place where the disease is rife.'

'Why would I go there?' he asks with astonishment. 'There is nothing in those streets except for poverty and the Iron Works. But we have been to other places where hoi polloi has been much in evidence and maybe I have not been as careful as I should. Picture galleries and museums can be very crowded. Bad air cannot be avoided. And there is always ordure in the streets no matter how careful one is.'

He looks so disconsolate that I feel obliged to say, 'I don't blame you, you know, John.'

'And Mrs Baxter? I hear she has taken the others away.'

'She has to protect Benjamin. And it was best for the older girls to go too.'

He raises his eyebrows. 'So who is nursing Daisy?'

'Who else but her father?' I reply, conscious of some pride. 'With some help, of course, from Hannah,' I add, seeing the servant's quick glance.

'And there is no improvement?' He looks upwards as if to see her through the ceiling.

'Still in a fever. But, thank G.o.d, no worse.'

'Would you give her this when she is well again and I am sure she will be well again very soon. In fact, I am quite convinced of it.' He hands me a sheaf of papers in his awkward way. 'It is a story I have written. Something to amuse her and to remind her of me and to know I am thinking of her, although I am not with her. I have ill.u.s.trated it, too, although it is not quite as good as I would like. But I felt I should not delay by making a second draft.'

I take it. I suppose it is his odd way of showing concern. He clearly doesn't understand how weak she is, how incapable of listening to a story. 'Now, if you'll forgive me, Daisy must always have someone with her. She may wake, and need something. Or she may . . . well, she may suddenly . . .' I cannot finish the words.

'Of course.' He looks very miserable.

'If there is a G.o.d of Mercy, she will not die. Pray for her, won't you, John?'

'With all my heart.' And he turns and walks despondently down the path.

I have been with Daisy ever since. She has moved a little, and opened her eyes, and has swallowed a mouthful or two of water, but is otherwise the same. My eye keeps being caught by the red covers of her journal. It's almost full, if the amount of well-thumbed pages is anything to go by, and there is no small quant.i.ty of additional memoranda inside. I can't help thinking what a conscientious and hard-working child she is, even in her leisure time, and I wonder what she has chosen to write about at such length. Her school friends? Her family? Nettie? Her outings with Mr Jameson? Even her father, perhaps? Or has she made up stories to amuse herself? I hope she has not felt constrained to keep an account of her good and bad behaviour as I suggested at the outset, sanctimonious fool that I am.

I am tempted to take a peek at it. I feel it might bring me closer to her, help me to understand her thoughts and feelings and what interests her in the wide world. But I know the journal is private, and I hesitate to intrude on her girlish thoughts and feelings, harmless though I am sure they are.

I lean over her as she sleeps on the bed. Her mouth has fallen open a little, and I can see her tongue is dry. 'Daisy, my darling,' I say in her ear. 'You must drink some water.'

She opens her eyes. I lift her, cradling her shoulders as she sips from the tumbler. I can see it is agony for her to swallow. 'Thank you,' she murmurs, falling back on the pillow, as if exhausted by that one simple action.

'Drink a little more,' I urge. 'Dr Lawrence says you must.'

She makes another effort, but this time the water spills from the corners of her mouth, so I put the tumbler down. I lay the back of my hand against her neck. Very hot still, and with small swellings each side. 'Can you hear me?' I ask.

She opens her eyes.

'Do you know who I am?'

'Papa.' She smiles her strange, sad smile.

A wave of love floods over me. 'You know you are dear to me, don't you?' I whisper, cradling her again and kissing her over and over.

She nods. Then slips back into sleep, her head against my waistcoat.

Is she a little better? I cannot tell. The changes in her are so small. But I offer up the same prayer. Let her live, dear Lord, let her live.

It's evening now. I've dipped in and out of sleep all afternoon. I can hardly believe how tiring it is, simply sitting and watching. I'm used to being active. In one day I can do my parish rounds, take Holy Communion to the sick, attend a lesson or two at the school, chair a board meeting of the Charity Committee and still have plenty of time to read or take a stiff walk along the riverbank, meditating on what occupies my mind the most. I almost never feel tired. But this watching and waiting has sapped all my energies. I feel almost as though I am becoming drawn into Daisy's very body, sharing her sickness and lethargy.

And in this moment, it comes to me like a sign from Heaven; I can take on her sickness myself. That is what is required of me. That is the sacrifice G.o.d demands for my pride and my l.u.s.t. I drop to my knees. Take me, O Lord, I pray most earnestly. Take my life, take my health, take my sanity but save Daisy.

I am still on my knees when Hannah comes in with my supper and a bowl of chamomile tea for Daisy. 'Oh, beg pardon, Mr Baxter, I didn't mean to disturb you at your prayers. It's just that you've had nothing all day and Cook says she might as well hand in her notice.'

I get to my feet, a little shaken at her matter-of-fact manner and the sudden intrusion of simple material concerns. 'Cook is right,' I say with an effort. 'We must nourish the body. It's the temple of the spirit, after all. But let me try to get Daisy to drink a little first. I'll hold her up if you will manage the spoon.'

I touch Daisy's cheek with my finger and she lifts her head slightly towards me, which I think a good sign. 'Come, dearest,' I say. 'Have some chamomile tea. Cook has made it specially.'

'There's ever so much sugar in it,' says Hannah encouragingly. 'Cook says sugar gives you strength.'

Between us, and very slowly, we administer at least half a cup of the sweet, warm liquid. Daisy's head lolls a bit, and in spite of Hannah's care, some of the tea dribbles down onto her nightgown and sits there damply around her neck. 'I'll wipe it in a minute,' says Hannah, opening the collar. 'You've done well, though, Miss Daisy. Cook will be ever so pleased. And now you, sir,' she says, holding out the tray with its covered plates and a gla.s.s of wine. 'I'll watch Daisy for you while you eat that is, if you don't mind.'

'Thank you, Hannah. You're a good girl. I shall tell Mrs Baxter what a help you've been.'

She smiles and I think what a nice-looking young woman she is, and not nearly as sharp and flighty as I'd imagined. It seems to me that I have been inclined to judge people harshly, and that there is more common humanity in my servants than I have given them credit for. I except Mrs McQueen from that view, of course. I can hardly believe that we have allowed such a woman to have the care of our son. What was Evelina thinking of? But sufficient unto the day . . . Daisy must have all my attention now.

It's night time, and I've lit a candle by the bedside. I watch over her in its flickering light. I think she breathes more easily now. Sometimes she wakes and tries to speak. I think she's fighting the fever. At one point she throws off her sheet. 'Too hot,' she says. Then she asks for water, and I gladly give it to her. Then she sleeps again.

My eye keeps returning to the journal. It almost invites me to read it. I have prayed until I no longer know what to say, and my head is whirling with unanswered pleas and unimaginable punishments. I feel the need to rest my mind. Just a page or two, I think. Nothing more. I take the book onto my lap.

She's written her name on the first page in true childish fas.h.i.+on. Her pet name, of course. She never uses her baptismal name, and I've no quarrel with her there. I always thought Marguerite a little outlandish for a clergyman's child, but after all the tribulations of Daisy's birth, I had to allow Evelina her way, and she had a fancy for the name. Yet, by some subtle process, this name has never been used. To all of us, Daisy is well, Daisy. And it suits her. It's as fresh and simple as she is.

I turn the page. I see that she's written about the birthday party. So much excitement beforehand and so nearly a tragedy at the end. And John's parasol has a mention, naturally. I see too that she got up early to record her thoughts. It's an excellent practice and one I followed for years myself; the hours before dawn have such clarity. And I see she's been turning matters over in her mind, speculating why G.o.d allowed such a thing to happen to Benjamin. Unfortunately she also sets down my dismissive answer about the ways of the Almighty. Did I believe it when I answered her in that way? Sometimes I believe that G.o.d's infinite mind cannot be comprehended by mere mortals; and at other times I think such a glib explanation is a mere excuse.

What a deal she's written and how observant she is. And forthright, too. I am ashamed to see that, in her eyes, I am a man with a temper, and even those I love are wary of me. She says oh, what pain it is to read this that Nettie's departure is the worst day of her life. How could I not have seen that? Nettie had looked after Daisy all her life: she was a second mother. Yet I was more occupied with a.s.serting my moral superiority than with Daisy's welfare.

16.

MARGARET CONSTANTINE.

In spite of my exhaustion, I've hardly slept. I keep hearing fragments of conversations I can't quite place, with people I can't quite see. I've tossed and turned so much I've been tempted to take some laudanum but Robert says one can come to rely on it, so I've refrained. But it's seven o'clock now, and I'm fully awake. In spite of my earlier misgivings, I can't wait to take the diary from under my pillow, and immerse myself in it once more. But I can't risk Robert coming in and finding me, with a repet.i.tion of yesterday's embarra.s.sing hunt-the-parcel.

I wash and dress, not waiting for Minnie, and I'm almost completely ready when she knocks at the door. She's aggrieved to find I have done without her, and insists on my sitting down by the dressing-table while she finishes my hair. 'You've got such lovely hair, Mrs Constantine,' she says, not for the first time, as she brushes it out.

'Oh, there's far too much of it,' I say. 'Sometimes I've a mind to cut it all off.'

She's horrified. 'Oh, no, ma'am you'd lose half your beauty.'

I smile at the thought that my beauty is so resident in my hair. 'I did cut it once,' I tell her, with the memory of my childhood transgression still fresh in my mind. 'And a very well-known literary gentleman thought it improved me no end.'

'Well, that gentleman couldn't have had no sense, begging your pardon. Any lady'd be glad to have hair like yours. I know I would.' And she glances wistfully in the mirror at the thin brown strands of her own hair, dragged back into a scrawny knot beneath her cap.

'You wouldn't say that if you'd had to live with it all your life,' I say. 'Just think how long it's taking you to make it halfway presentable this morning. You must have used up at least fifty hairpins.' I laugh. 'Perhaps Mrs Bloomer should advocate Rational Hair for women, as well as Rational Dress.'

She says nothing. Obviously she disapproves of Mrs Bloomer.

When my hair is at last done to her satisfaction, she lifts my nightgown from the bed, and pulls back the sheets. She bustles about, affecting not to notice that the pillow next to mine is pristine and untouched. But she's not a fool, and as soon as she goes to clean the dressing-room, she'll know for certain that her newly married master has once again spent the night apart from his wife. I don't know whether she thinks grand folk do things differently, or whether she pities us for a lack of pa.s.sion. But I am brisk and lively in front of her, and pretend that all is well in my world. I don't have to pretend too hard. The thought that I might at last find the key to what is amiss makes me almost excited.

At breakfast, Robert senses my change of mood. 'You seem in good spirits, Margaret. Is the prospect of a resolution to our problem cheering you up?' He folds The Times over with a practised movement, and bends towards me to impart his usual morning kiss. His lips hover, and then just brush my cheek. I see he intends not to risk further rejection until the Harley Street man is consulted, at least. 'On that very matter, I have already sent a note to Dr Lawrence,' he says. 'I was up early, and it struck me that there was no time like the present. I have requested an appointment at his earliest convenience and I hope we will hear something soon.' He helps himself to tea, and b.u.t.ters a piece of toast with a satisfied flourish.

'Thank you, Robert. I'm sorry for being such a trial to you.'

'All trials serve to strengthen us, Margaret. I pray every night that G.o.d will bring us together. And I am sure He will. In the meantime, I hope you will come with me to see Mrs Wentworth this afternoon. She's been asking after you these two weeks and I feel maybe it is time you started your parochial duties. The carefree honeymoon life cannot last for ever.' He stops, sensing the irony of what he has said. 'At least, in the eyes of the parish, it will seem that, now that you are established at the rectory, that, well . . .'

'Yes, Robert. I understand.'

'I don't expect you to overtire yourself, my dear, but you need to settle into your new responsibilities and whatever our private troubles you and I need to set an example to the congregation. We must appear together, in step, and in good heart.'

'Yes, Robert. I really do understand. I am not a clergyman's daughter for nothing.' G.o.d knows Papa's situation made me only too aware of the need to keep up appearances.

'Good. Good.' He grasps my hand and looks at me in the old, friendly way. 'We will conquer this thing, Margaret. I will not be beaten.'