“Well, I don’t!” said the woman in a cold, hard voice. “I prefer to take things as they come, Dr. Brookes, and you cannot say that I do not take my punishment philosophically.”
They were at one end of a long ward when this conversation took place; five minutes later they were both bending over a patient.
“You can take the bandages off now, Belle,” said the doctor, softly. “Poor soul, she is dying and perhaps she will be more comfortable.”
“Did you learn her name?” asked the female convict.
“No, she came as Mary Jones, which means absolutely nothing. We have wired to the police for further information.”
“Well, it will come too late, I’m afraid,” said the woman softly. The patient had breathed her last before she had fairly removed the dressings.
Marion Marlowe was standing by a window in Charity Hospital, watching the setting sun just as the “vitriol patient’s” remains were taken to the criminal “dead-house.”
Little did she dream what tragedy had been enacted, or how closely connected was her life with this poor creature’s.
She was thinking of Mr. Ray and his great grief as she stood there, and it was only the stroke of the bell that roused her from her reverie.
As she passed through the corridor on her way to the dining-room an office assistant came along with a handful of letters.