Cook saw that
her tremor appeared to verge on steadying itself.
"Coombe," she faintly breathed as if to herself and not to Cook.
"Coombe."
"His lordship was very friendly with Mr. Lawless and he seemed fond
of--coming to the house," was presented as a sort of added argument.
"If you'll lie down I'll bring you a cup of tea, ma'am--though it
can't be beef."
Feather staggered again to her bed and dropped flat upon it--flat
as a slim little pancake in folds of thin black stuff which hung
and floated.
"I can't bring you cream," said Cook as she went out of the room.
"Louisa has had nothing but condensed milk--since yesterday--to
give Miss Robin."
"Oh-h!" groaned Feather, not in horror of the tea without cream
though that was awful enough in its significance, but because this
was the first time since the falling to pieces of her world that
she had given a thought to the added calamity of Robin.
CHAPTER IV
If one were to devote one's mental energies to speculation as
to what is going on behind the noncommittal fronts of any row of
houses in any great city the imaginative mind might be led far.
Bricks, mortar, windows, doors, steps which lead up to the threshold,
are what are to be seen from the outside. Nothing particular may
be transpiring within the walls, or tragedies, crimes, hideous suffering
may be enclosed.
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