"
The nurse shot her a swift glance. "I'm glad of that," she said dryly.
She let Joan go upstairs.
Mrs. Phillips was asleep. Joan seated herself beside the bed and waited.
She had not yet made herself up for the day and the dyed hair was hidden
beneath a white, close-fitting cap. The pale, thin face with its closed
eyes looked strangely young. Suddenly the thin hands clasped, and her
lips moved, as if she were praying in her sleep. Perhaps she also was
dreaming of Gethsemane. It must be quite a crowded garden, if only we
could see it.
After a while, her eyes opened. Joan drew her chair nearer and slipped
her arm in under her, and their eyes met.
"You're not playing the game," whispered Joan, shaking her head. "I only
promised on condition that you would try to get well."
The woman made no attempt to deny. Something told her that Joan had
learned her secret. She glanced towards the door. Joan had closed it.
"Don't drag me back," she whispered. "It's all finished." She raised
herself up and put her arms about Joan's neck. "It was hard at first,
and I hated you.
Pages:
318
319
320
321
322
323
324
325
326
327
328
329
330
331
332
333
334
335
336
337
338
339
340
341
342