“And now, Nella-Rose, what are you going to—to do with us all?”
The tired head of little Ann was pressed against her mother’s breast. The food, the heat, were lulling her weary senses into oblivion again. Lynda gave a swift thought of gratitude for the momentary respite as she watched the small, dark face sink from her direct view.
“We are all in your hands,” she continued.
“In my hands—mine?”
“Yes. Yours.”
“I—I must—tell him—and then go home.”
“Must you, Nella-Rose?”
“What else is there for me?”
“You must decide. You, alone.”
“You”—the lips quivered—“you will not go with me?”