“Yes; that means something to me. May I ask how to reach the hospital?”
This being explained Miss Towell promised to appear without delay, begging that in the meantime everything be done for Miss Rashleigh’s comfort.
She was not perturbed. She was not surprised. She did not wonder who Letitia Rashleigh could be, or why her address should be found in the girl’s pocket. She was as quiet and serene as if such incidents belonged to every day’s work.
Dressed for the street she was all in black. A mantua covered with bugles and braid dropped from her shoulders, while a bonnet which rose to a pointed arch above her brow, and allowed the silver knob of her hair to escape behind, gave her a late nineteenth century dignity. Before leaving the house she took two volumes from her shelves—read first in one, then in the other—sat pensive for a while, with head bent and eyes shaded—after which she replaced her books, turned the key in her door, and set forth for Brooklyn Bridge.
Chapter XXIII
“Why you should hold me responsible,” Barbara was saying, “I can’t begin to imagine. Surely I’ve done everything I could to simplify matters, to straighten them out, and to give you a chance to rectify your folly. I’ve effaced myself; I’ve broken my heart; I’ve promised Aunt Marion to go in for a job for which I’m not fitted and don’t care a rap; and yet you come here, accusing me––”
“But, Barbe, I’m not accusing you! If I’m accusing anyone it’s myself. Only I can’t speak without your taking me up––”
“There you go! Oh, Rash, dear, if you’d only been able to control yourself nothing of this would have happened—not from the first.”