Martha began sobbing. "Won't you let me go?"
"No, I won't."
"Will you stay with me?"
"You are my child." Martha's sobs reassured her. "Don't ever say that—promise me not to think of—dying. Martha, promise me. I'll take care of you, Martha, if you promise."
"How can I live?"
"How can I let you—die? Oh, how awful of you, to think of such things. Is this why you came to New York?"
"Yes. I ought to, mammie. You don't want me—living now. Dad won't."
Emily rose up. She was recovering from the shock—the stunning.
"I'll take care of you. Don't worry. We must go upstairs. We must talk it over. I don't know."
She led the child towards the door. She opened it. The policeman stood there, guarding it. He would not let them out. "I'll call the manager," she said.