Once she brushed an imaginary fleck of lint from the lap of
her blue serge skirt--brushed, and brushed and brushed, with a
mechanical, pathetic little gesture that showed how completely absent
her mind was from the room in which she sat. Then her hand fell idle,
and she became very still, a crumpled, tragic, hopeless look rounding
the shoulders that were wont to hold themselves so erect and
confident.
A tentative knock at the door. The figure on the bed did not stir.
Another knock, louder this time. Emma McChesney sat up with a start.
She shivered as she became conscious of the icy December air pouring
into the little room. She rose, walked to the window, closed it with a
bang, and opened the door in time to intercept the third knock.
A waiter proffered her a long card. "Dinner, Madame?"
"Oh!" She shook her head. "Sorry I've changed my mind. I--I shan't
want any dinner."
She shut the door again and stood with her back against it, eying the
bed. In her mind's eye she had already thrown herself upon it, buried
her face in the nest of pillows, and given vent to the flood of tears
that was beating at her throat.
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