"You had better leave me here," she said. "I am going to sit
upon that seat."
Then came those few seconds' hesitation which were to count for a
great deal in his life. The impulse which bade him stay with her
was unaccountable but it conquered.
"If you do not object," he remarked with some stiffness, "I
should like to sit here with you for a little time. There is
certainly a breeze."
She made no comment but walked on. He paid the man and followed
her to the empty seat. Opposite, some illuminated advertisements
blazed their unsightly message across the murky sky. Between the
two curving rows of yellow lights the river flowed--black,
turgid, hopeless. Even here, though they had escaped from its
absolute thrall, the far-away roar of the city beat upon their
ears. She listened to it for a moment and then pressed her hands
to the side of her head.
"Oh, how I hate it!" she moaned. "The voices, always the voices,
calling, threatening, beating you away! Take my hands, Leonard
Tavernake,--hold me."
He did as she bade him, clumsily, as yet without comprehension.
"You are not well," he muttered.
Her eyes opened and a flash of her old manner returned. She
smiled at him, feebly but derisively.
"You foolish boy!" she cried. "Can't you see that I am dying?
Hold my hands tightly and watch--watch! Here is one more thing
you can see--that you cannot understand."
He saw the empty phial slip from her sleeve and fall on to the
pavement.
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