The mossy marbles rest
On the lips that we have pressed
In their bloom.
And the names we loved to hear
Have been carved for many a year
On the tomb.
Once safely in the street, he ventured to call a taxicab, explaining to the chauffeur, who looked suspiciously at his strange burden, that his daughter had fainted in the street while they were on their way to a little party.
“Just drive about the streets a while until I give you further orders,” he said, wishing to gain time to think.
To carry Jessie in this garb and condition to any hotel, he knew, would bring upon him a suspicion he was unwilling to face, so he racked his brain in the endeavor to decide where to go with his charge.
In his extremity he thought of the woman by whom the Lyndons had once lived, and who had told him of his sister’s death and the removal of the bereaved family to so distant a part of the city that she had quite lost track of them. The woman was widowed and lived alone in a poor cottage of her own, so it was the safest refuge he could find for Jessie.