THE OLD MAID
trils. The room was filled with an acrid aromatic scent.
Charlotte’s lids lifted. “Don’t be frightened. I still spit blood sometimes—not often. My lung is nearly healed. But it’s the terror—”
“No, no: there’s to be no more terror. I tell you I’ve thought it all out. Jim is going to let me take the baby.”
The girl raised herself haggardly. “Jim? Have you told him? Is that where you've been?”
“No, darling. I’ve only been to see the baby.”
“Oh,” Charlotte moaned, leaning back again. Delia took her own handkerchief, and wiped away the tears that were raining down her cousin’s cheeks.
“You mustn’t cry, Chatty; you must be brave. Your little girl and his—how could you think? But you must give me time:
[ 54 ]
