Messalina of the suburbs

by E. M. Delafield

That was the sound of a key in the lock outside.

“’Morning, Mrs. Hatch. A nasty change in the weather, isn’t it?”

Mumble, mumble, mumble.

“Oh Lord, already!”

He came into the room where Sister Clara shuddered and cowered inside her folds of enveloping black serge.

Look at the face of him! Different, somehow.

You could see how he felt the sudden chilliness in the air, and he was rubbing his hands together, hard. They were different, too—all mottled with cold.

“You in pain, Sister?”

“I—I’ve come.”

“M’m? I don’t attend to anyone till nine o’clock, you know, as a rule, but if it’s a question of pain.... Well, what can I do for you? By the look of you, it’s an abscess, isn’t it?”