Thanks for your help, D'Artagnan. [He glances up at him, giving him a tight smile; Owen knows how awkward this must be for him, but he's bad at expressing things like appreciation.

And then he's glancing down at Clara's abdomen. It's not quite as bad as he thought; the bleeding is at least sluggish now, and he moves away to start gathering supplies.] Plenty of stitches, I think, and consequently bedrest - not the enjoyable sort, I'm afraid, but the kind where you can't exert yourself because you really don't want to rip your stitches.