And child Frances felt her to be in her selfishness, a child never denied, and careless and unfeeling of the rights of others from this long indulgence. She 278 doubted Nola’s sincerity, even in the face of such demonstrative evidence. There was no pity for her, and no softness.
“Get up!” Frances spoke sternly—“and go to your room.”
“He must not be allowed to die—he must be saved!” Nola reached out her hands, standing now on her knees, as if to call back his struggling soul.
“Belated tears will not save him. Get up—it’s time for you to go.”
Nola bent forward suddenly, her hair sweeping the wounded man’s face, her lips near his brow. Frances caught her with a sound in her throat like a growl, and flung her back.
“You’ll not kiss him—you’ll never kiss him!” she said.
Nola sprang up, not crying now, but hot with sudden anger.
“If you were out of the way he’d love me!”
“Love you! you little cat!”
“Yes, he’d love me—I’d take him away from you like I’ve taken other men! He’d love me, I tell you—he’d love me!”