I might have spared myself any anxiety on the point. When she came she
was perfectly self-composed, and more as she seemed when I first knew
her, though I will admit that I thought her face more possible to emotion
than in the past.
It seems strange to write of a few weeks before as the past; but so much
had occurred that the days might easily have been months and the weeks
years.
She sat down beside him and held out her hand. And as she did so, I
thought of Boyd Madras and of that long last night of his life, and of
her refusal to say to him one comforting word, or to touch his hand in
forgiveness and friendship. And was this man so much better than Boyd
Madras? His wild words in delirium might mean nothing, but if they meant
anything, and she knew of that anything, she was still a heartless,
unnatural woman, as I had once called her.
Roscoe took her hand and held it briefly. "Dr. Marmion says that you have
helped to nurse me through my illness," he whispered. "I am most
grateful."
I thought she replied with the slightest constraint in her voice. "One
could not let an old acquaintance die without making an effort to save
him.
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