The chemist had joined his assistant and
was busy dispensing drugs behind his counter.
"You can go in to the young lady, if you like," he remarked to
Tavernake. "I dare say she'll feel better to have some one with
her."
Tavernake passed slowly into the inner room, closing the door
behind him. He was scarcely prepared for so piteous a sight.
The girl's face was white and drawn as she lay upon the couch to
which they had lifted her. The fighting spirit was dead; she was
in a state of absolute and complete collapse. She opened her
eyes at his coning, but closed them again almost immediately
-- less, it seemed, from any consciousness of his presence than
from sheer exhaustion.
"I am glad that you are better," he whispered crossing the room
to her side.
"Thank you," she murmured almost inaudibly.
Tavernake stood looking down upon her, and his sense of
perplexity increased. Stretched on the hard horsehair couch she
seemed, indeed, pitifully thin and younger than her years. The
scowl, which had passed from her face, had served in some measure
as a disguise.
"We shall have to leave here in a few minutes," he said, softly.
"They will want to close the shop."
"I am so sorry," she faltered, "to have given you all this
trouble. You must send me to a hospital or the workhouse
-- anywhere."
"You are sure that there are no friends to whom I can send?" he
asked.
"There is no one!"
She closed her eyes and Tavernake sat quite still on the end of
her couch, his elbow upon his knee, his head resting upon his
hand.
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