minutes. And now she could see by certain spasmodic symptoms that another crisis of pain was approaching—one of the struggles that Wyant, at times, had almost seemed to court and exult in.
Bessy’s eyes turned on her again. “Justine”
She knew what that meant: it was an appeal for the hypodermic needle. The little instrument lay at hand, beside a newly-filled bottle of morphia. But she must wait—must let the pain grow more severe. Yet she could not turn her gaze from Bessy, and Bessy’s eyes entreated her again—Justine! There was really no word now—the whimperings were uninterrupted. But Justine heard an inner voice, and its pleading shook her heart. She rose and filled the syringe—and returning with it, bent above the bed.…
She lifted her head and looked at the clock. The second hour had passed. As she looked, she heard a step in the sitting—room. Who could it be? Not Dr. Garford’s assistant—he was not due till seven. She listened again.… One of the nurses? No, not a woman’s step
The door opened, and Wyant came in. Justine stood by the bed without moving toward him. He paused also, as if surprised to see her there motionless. In the intense silence she fancied for a moment that
she heard Bessy’s violent agonized breathing. She
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