She had
rubbed over her face, which shone in streaks, and her handkerchief
was still crumpled in her hand. It was horrible to come, so fresh and
glowing, into the presence of this poor woman, evidently in bitter
sorrow. And a desperate desire came over Gyp to fly. It seemed dreadful
for anyone connected with him who had caused this trouble to be coming
here at all. But she said as softly as she could:
"Mrs. Wagge? Please forgive me--but is there any news? I am--It was I
who got Daphne down here."
The woman before her was evidently being torn this way and that, but at
last she answered, with a sniff:
"It--it--was born this morning--dead." Gyp gasped. To have gone through
it all for that! Every bit of mother-feeling in her rebelled and
sorrowed; but her reason said: Better so! Much better! And she murmured:
"How is she?"
Mrs. Wagge answered, with profound dejection:
"Bad--very bad. I don't know I'm sure what to say--my feelings are all
anyhow, and that's the truth. It's so dreadfully upsetting altogether."
"Is my nurse with her?"
"Yes; she's there. She's a very headstrong woman, but capable, I don't
deny. Daisy's very weak. Oh, it IS upsetting! And now I suppose there'll
have to be a burial. There really seems no end to it. And all because
of--of that man." And Mrs. Wagge turned away again to cry into her
handkerchief.
Feeling she could never say or do the right thing to the poor lady, Gyp
stole out.
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