"Somehow—I will!"
"If—only—you—could. I am lonely. Terribly—lonely. If—it—would—be—soon."
"It—must—be—soon."
"I'll—wait—for you—always. But—if you are—real—you'll—come—soon. It's lonely—waiting. And—I—don't—even—know—if—you—are. I—don't—even—know."
The Reverend William Cruthers started from his chair.
Some one had banged the window closed. Some one had lit the lamp on the center table. Its yellow light trickled through the room and over the scant old fashioned furniture and crept upwards across the booklined walls.
The room was stuffy and close. The smell of flowers had gone.
"Billy!"
He turned to see his sister rushing across the room to him. He stooped a bit and caught her in his arms.
"Why, Gina. I didn't know. Why didn't you write and tell me? Who brought you up from the station?"