bitter, shot up, hurting her. "How could he know? Of course he couldn't know. She'd been a lot better this last fortnight—the other doctor said so—she didn't believe it—she didn't care—Anyway, it would be over before the end of February!"
Suddenly the crooning wail started again: next, spasms of weeping, harsh and gasping.
By-and-by she understood that she was crying noisily, and that she was alone in the room: like a light in a wind, the sobbing fit ceased.
"Let me live—let me live—I'll be straight—I'll go to church—I'll do anything! Take it away—it hurts—I can't bear it!"
Once more the sound of her own voice in the empty room calmed her. But the tension of emotion slackened, only to tighten again: immediately she was jeering at herself. What was she wasting her breath for? What had Jesus ever done for her? She'd had her fling, and it was no thanks to Him.
"'Dy-sy—Dy-sy—'"
From the street below, boisterous and loud, the refrain came up. And, as the footsteps tramped away, the words reached her once more, indistinct in the distance
"'I'm jest cryzy, all for the love o' you.'"
She felt frightened. It was like a thing in a play. It was as if some one was there, in the room—hiding—watching her.
Then a coughing fit started, racking her. In the middle, she struggled to cry for help; she thought she was going to suffocate.
Afterwards she sank back, limp, tired, and sleepy.
The end of February—she was going to die—it was important, exciting—what would it be like? Everybody else died. Midge had died in the summer—but that was worry and going the pace. And they said that Annie Evans was going off too. Damn it!
she wasn't going to be chicken-hearted. She'd face it. She'd
