She turned on the gas, which roared a little and then subsided into a sullen yellow flame. The shade belonging to the gas jet had been broken that morning by Nesta in a game of romps with her two sisters.
“How hot it is,” said Nesta presently.
No one took any notice of her remark, and after a time Ethel spoke.
“I ought to tell you,” she said.
Molly turned her haggard face.
“What?” she asked. “If it is anything awful, I shall scream.”
“You won’t—so there!”
“What do you mean? How can you prevent me?”
“I saw,” said Ethel, and she gulped down a sob in her throat—“I saw Dr Anstruther, and he said we were to forget ourselves—to obliterate ourselves—that was the word he used—to keep ourselves out of sight. We might be wanted, or we might not. We’re of no account—no account at all—that was the kind of thing he said, and I’m not a bit surprised.”
“Nor am I,” said Nesta; “we’re beasts. I wish we could be killed. I wish we could be buried alive. I wish—I wish—anything but what has happened.”