"You have no relatives living?" he asked.
"None that I care about," she replied. She swallowed sharply. "They're scattered—gone West. We lost track of them."
"Oh. . . . Then do you intend to stay here?"
"For awhile—if Joe wants me."
"I'll take care of Joe." Though the voice was low, it had an anxious jealous note which made her shiver slightly.
"There's the child," she reminded him sharply. "Why not take it away?" he asked. "Joe never cared for it, did he? Do you think it has been happy here?"
And at that she could have struck him. At her glare he turned away.
"Forgive me. Of course I—should not have said that." A pause. "Nor talked of your plans. I'm not myself. Sorry for Joe. Forgive me." He turned away from her, frowning. "I'll see to everything," he said, and she heard him leave the apartment.
And all the rest of the day and the night and through the morning which followed, no one else came but professional men, and Mrs. Carr. She came and went; and her voice grew familiar—hard, intrusive, naked. And the thought kept rising in Ethel's mind, like a flash of revelation in all the storm and blackness:
"This kind of a woman was Amy's best friend!"