“You! Well, perhaps—perhaps even you would have understood.”
“Look—he moved!”
“Sh-h-h! your talking disturbs him, Nola. Go to bed—you can’t help me any here.”
“And leave him all to you!”
The words flashed from Nola, as if they had sprung out of her mouth before her reason had given them permission to depart.
“Of course with me; he’s mine!”
“If he’s going to die, Frances, can’t I share him with you till the end—can’t I have just a little share in the care of him here with you?”
Nola laid her hand on Frances’ arm as she pleaded, turning her white face appealingly in the dim light.
“Don’t talk that way, girl!” said Frances, roughly; “you have no part in him at all—he is nothing to you.”