He staggered up to me fiercely, and his eyes razed my face.
“Fiddle your grandmother,” he muttered, “I’m off home, I tell you.”
“You can’t leave the room; it’s better for you to go back to bed,” and I held him round with my arms.
“See here, you,” his yellow cheeks reddened with his passionate effort, “you can’t hold me a prisoner any longer. Oh, Barrett, Barrett, what are you doing to me to destroy me?”
I knew no Barrett, but the poor creature was shivering with anguish and cold. I put my arms around him and tried to move him out of the draught of the door. His thin arms closed on me at the first hint of force, and he clenched with feverish vigor. I could feel his frail bones against me, his bare ribs, his wild thumping heart.
“You can’t, you can’t. You can’t keep me prisoner....”
He struggled, his heart thumping me. Then in one instant he went slack.
We lifted him to the bed, and I felt under his shirt for the flutter of his heart. His mouth had dropped open, his eyes were like a dead bird’s.
The little nun began, “Jesus, Mary and Joseph,” and other holy words, while I groped helplessly over this fragile burned-out frame. Then I remembered and I stumbled wild-minded to find that woman downstairs.
I went headlong through the darkness. At my knock the door opened, as if by an unseen hand, and I saw, completely dressed, the pale little girl, with her grave eyes.