Slowly, Tom supporting the woman with his hands under her arms, disgust and anger on his face, while Cis walked behind, occasionally steadying the wavering figure by a hand upon her spine, they reached the confines of the small park. Cis hailed a cab; they bundled the woman into it, and Cis gave the driver his order.
“To the House of the Good Shepherd,” she said.
Then she added herself to the strange party, and the cab started.
“The Sisters won’t thank us, perhaps,” muttered Tom.
“Surely they will! There’s no bound to their charity, and no bound to hope, except death,” cried Cis. “She is desperately ill.”
“Dissipation, dope, exposure, why wouldn’t she be ill?” growled Tom. “It’s a great combination for you to hitch up to, Cis.”
“I don’t know. My guardian angel hitches up to me, and there’s more difference between me and an angel, than between this woman and me. Are you comfortable? Do you hear me speaking to you?” Cis asked.
“I hear. I heard. I don’t want to go to the Sisters; I want to die, die, die! I’ve had enough,” the woman aroused herself to say.
“Poor soul, I’m sorry!” Cis’s voice was as sweet as Nan’s when she comforted her baby. “I think you’ll be glad that we found you. Why, you’re quite young, and you were pretty!”
“Pretty! Yes, that’s so. I’m twenty-eight or nine; I don’t know—” the quavering voice trailed into silence.