. He curses the wait. Above all, he curses the angular arm-chair.
''See here,'' he says, ''my shoulder. You see it? It is rising from its socket—it is quite thrown out. I shall be deformed, in a week. As for these creases—'' He angrily smooths his trousers. ''I should have brought Charles, after all. At this rate I shall arrive at London only to be laughed off its streets.''
London, I think. The word means nothing to me now.
He rides out, every other day, for news of my uncle. He smokes so many cigarettes the stain on his scorched forefinger spreads to the finger beside it. Now and then he lets me take a dose of my draught; but he always keeps hold of the bottle.
''Very good,'' he says, watching me drink. ''Not much longer, now.
Why, how thin and pale you''ve grown!—and Sue grows sleeker by the hour, like one of Mother Cream''s black-faced sows. Get her into your best gown tomorrow, will you?''
I do. I will do anything, now, to bring an end to our long wait. I will pretend fear, and nervousness, and weeping, while he leans to caress or chide me. I will do it, not looking at Sue—or else, looking at her slyly, desperately, to see if she colours or seems ashamed. She never does. Her hands, that I remember sliding upon me, pressing, turning, opening me up—her hands, when they touch me now, are perfectly lifeless and white. Her face is closed. She only waits, as we do, for the coming of the doctors.