The sniffing ceased, her vision
cleared; she grew sardonic. All her chest was filled with cold lead.
"This truly is the end," she thought. She had thought that Julian's
confession must be the end of the violent experiences which had
befallen her in Mrs. Malden's house. Then she had thought that Louis'
accident must be the end. Each time she had been mistaken. But she
could not be mistaken now. No conceivable event, however awful,
could cap Louis' confession that he had thieved--and under such
circumstances!
She did not drink the first cup of tea. No! She must needs carry it,
spilling it, to Louis in bed. He was asleep, or he was in a condition
that resembled sleep. Assuredly he was ill. He made a dreadful object
in his bandages amid the disorder of the bed, upon which strong
shadows fell from the gas and from the stove. No matter! If he was
ill, he was ill. So much the worse for him! He was not dangerously
ill. He was merely passing through a stress which had to be passed
through. It would soon be over, and he would be the same eternal Louis
that he had always been.
"Here!" she said.
He stirred, opened his eyes.
"Here's some tea!" she said coldly. "Drink it."
He gave a gesture of dissent.
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