"I—I stuck to John to the end, though—didn't I, Cottie? Nobody can say I didn't stick to him—can they, Cottie?"
"No, no! Now don't go gettin' excited again, dearie."
"Oh, Gawd, Gawd, Cottie. I—I feel—so—so—queer!"
"Yes, darlin', I know!"
The cryptic quiescence of death hung over the unpainted pine bedchamber and chilled their skin like damp in a cave seeps through clothing. From the far side of the bed a lamp wavered against a tin reflector and danced through their hair like firelight in copper; wind galloped over the flat country, shook the box-shaped house, and whinnied on every flue.
Cottie, whose head was Tiziano's Flora yet more radiant, held her sister's equally radiant head close to her warm bosom, and through the calico of her open-at-the-throat waist, her heart pumped the organ-prelude of Life—Life in the midst of Death.
"Della darlin'—don't—don't be afraid to talk to me. Ain't—ain't I your—sister?"
"What—what—"
"I—I know—what you're thinkin', Della—"
"'Sh-h-h; not now!"