“Stronger!” Gypsy Nan shook her head. “Don't try to kid me! I know. They told me. I'd have known it anyway. I'm going out.”
Rhoda Gray found no answer for a moment. A great lump had risen in her throat. Neither would she have needed to be told; she, too, would have known it anyway—it was stamped in the gray pallor of the woman's face. She pressed Gypsy Nan's hand.
And then Gypsy Nan spoke again, a queer, yearning hesitancy in her voice:
“Do—do you believe in God?”
“Yes,” said Rhoda Gray simply.
Gypsy Nan closed her eyes.
“Do—do you think there is a chance—even at the last—if—if, without throwing down one's pals, one tries to make good?”
“Yes,” said Rhoda Gray again.
“Is the door closed?” Gypsy Nan attempted to raise herself on her elbow, as though to see for herself.
Rhoda Gray forced the other gently back upon the pillows.