"Mamma." It was Addie speaking. "The cab is here. . . . I'm going for Dr. Alsma. One of the maids has gone to another doctor, close by."
"Yes, dear; and then . . . and then go to . . . oh, go to Grandmamma's! She's expecting us! I know for certain that she's expecting us! . . . Stay in here, darlings, don't leave the room, promise me! . . . And, Addie, don't tell her . . . don't tell her anything yet . . . tell her . . . tell her that . . ."
The wail of despair rang out. And there were only two of them, now that Addie was gone, there were only two of them, helpless, she and Henri, in that night of death and snow—as though death were snowing outside, as though death were snowing into the brightly-lit house, with its all-obliterating whiteness, dazzlingly light, dazzlingly white—there were only two of them. . . .
