He had been afraid once that she would get fat. How
white her neck was; it was like swan's-down where the lace fell open
in the front of her dress. For a moment he forgot his prudent
resolutions; he put his arm around her and bent his head to touch her
throat with his lips.
But she pushed him away with a flaming look. "David saves you, does
he? Well; he will save me!"
Without another word she left him, as she had left him once before,
alone in the long parlor with the faintly snapping fire, and the
darkness pressing against the uncurtained windows. This time he did
not follow her to plead outside her closed door. There was a moment's
hesitation, then he shook his head, and took a fresh cigar.
"No," he said, "it's better this way."
CHAPTER XXVIII
"If it was _me_ that was doin' it," said Sarah, "I'd send for the
doctor."
"Well, but," Maggie protested, "she might be mad."
"If it was me, I'd let her be mad."
"Well, then, why don't you?" Maggie retorted.
"Send for him?" Sarah said airily impersonal. "Oh, it's none of my
business."
"Did you even it to her?" Maggie asked in a worried way.
"I did. I says, 'You're sick, Mrs. Richie,' I says.--She looked like
she was dead--'Won't I tell George to run down and ask Dr. King to
come up?' I says." "An" what did she say?" Maggie asked absently. She
knew what Mrs. Richie had said, because this was the fourth time she
and Sarah had gone over it.
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