“What disposition will be made of the poor girl’s body?”
“It shall remain in my care, doctor, and the funeral shall be in my charge from this house, and at my own expense,” she sobbed.
Cora Ellyson started forward indignantly, crying:
“Dear aunt, you surely forget that my wedding is the third day from now. The girl shall not be buried from here. It would be unseemly amid wedding gayeties!”
“The wedding must be postponed!” the proud woman sighed, lifting Jessie’s cold little hand and pressing her lips upon it.
“It shall not. Postponements are unlucky!” Cora uttered angrily.
“Just a few days, dear—until next week, say,” whispered her lover, who could scarcely turn his horrified gaze from that fair, dead face before him to his pouting sweetheart.
He was recalling the words Jessie had used in speaking of Carey Doyle’s frustrated attempt to kiss her lips:
“I should have died of disgust!”
How he had laughed at the idea of any one dying of a kiss, but looking at that still form on the floor, he felt as if he had the brand of Cain on his high, white brow.