“Bring me the broth.”
She brought it trembling. She was very tired and very hungry, and she wanted to whistle but she only whispered:
“Ain’t there nothing I kin do for you?”
“Open the window.”
“It’s night air, sah——”
“Open it, fool——”
She went to the window and opened it. She was handsome when she reached up, and her nose was almost as excellent as certain Jewish noses; her throat was smooth, and it throbbed.
Toward ten o’clock that night John Hardaway began to sing to himself. He was fond of French, but what he learned in French he sang in English.
“Ah, my little one—I have held you on my knee——
“I have kissed your ears and throat——
“Now I set you down——
“You may do as you will.”
He tried to turn over—but failed, and so he lay there staring into the fire.