"My poor little girl."
So there had been a glimmer within, after all. It went out, with a mortal throe. All was black.
But surely this was quite, quite unreal; but one more horror of the night, the last and the worst. Ah, surely, surely, she had but to make one great effort to find herself sitting up in the dark; trembling, but alive.
"How badly are you hurt?"
"Nothing.... Arm's broke.... No one else."
Then they were standing in the wide dim hall. The door was shut, and she was holding by the knob. And she heard a voice, so small, so strangely calm.
"How did it happen, papa?"
Papa had his sound arm raised, his hand rubbing vaguely at his lips. But it was not his own pain and shock that had bleached those lips so white.
"Floor crashed in--without warning ... broke through. He'd made a suggestion--some braces. So I took him up to look. We were standing there ... standing underneath. Standing there, talking. And the floor gave way ... cracked ... caved in on us. One machine came down...."
The voice, too, seemed to cave in. And some one was squeezing her hand, very hard.