“I’m not one bit afraid,” she said to the serious Sheila who was bending over her. “Now don’t be frightened. One would think....” Norah did not proceed. It was a moment of words half-spoken and the listener understood.
Suddenly Norah sighed deeply, clutched Sheila’s dress in a fierce grip and closed her eyes tightly and tensely. She was suffering, but she endured silently.
“I’m better again,” she said after a moment. “Don’t heed about me, Sheila. I’m fine.”
The older woman went back to her work with the large shiny scissors and the bright little needle. Only the swish-swish of the cutting shears and the noise of a falling cinder could be heard for a long while. On the roof wave-shadows could be seen rushing together, forming into something very dark and breaking free again.
“Will ye have a drop of tea, Norah?”
“No, Sheila,” said the girl in the bed in a low strained voice: then after a moment she asked: “Sheila, will ye come here for a minute?”
A cinder fell into the grate with a sharp rattle, the scissors sparkled brightly as they were laid aside. Sheila rose and went towards the bed on tiptoe.
“I’m not needin’ ye yet,” said Norah. “I thought.... I’m better again.”
The woman went back to her work, stepping even more softly than before. The night slipped away; the noises on stair and street became less and less, the women of No. 8 had retired to their beds, a drunken man sang homewards, a policeman passed along with slow, solemn tread; even these signs of life suddenly abated, and the noise of the cutting scissors, the clock striking out the hours, and the wind beating against the window were all that could be heard in the room.
About three o’clock the sanitary inspectors called. Sheila whispered to them at the door and they went away muttering something in an apologetic voice.