Sir Henry Baskerville:
As much morphine as Dr. Mortimer had put into me my head was still a ball of pain, but my heart hurt worse to know that Beryl was dead. I could see that Watson felt the same way. For all the stiff-upper lip talk my father used to give me about Englishmen I'd found him nearly as easy to read as any Yank or Canuck. But Holmes... My God, did nothing touch the man? He shook off my question like a horse twitching away flies. "I'm sorry, Sir Henry," he said perfunctorily. "I thought we'd be able to forestall the hound before it ever reached you. I was not expecting your cousin to have found a creature of that size."
My cousin? But I did not have the strength to think on it. "If I'd known there was danger I'd have carried my pistol," I said. "She might be alive."
"It wasn't your fault," Watson said, but he was looking at me, not Holmes. "There was nothing you could have done. She was so cold when I found her..." He tried to sit up and turn away, but Holmes held him down and for a moment I thought I saw something human in the detective's eyes.
"It was not your fault either, Watson," he said. "Now hold still and let the doctor work or you won't be able to use that arm at all."