Norah stood for some moment's with an irresolute air, then bent over the child and examined her more carefully. She could feel no pulse beat, nor any motion of the heart,
“I don't want the coroner here,” she said, in a tone of annoyance. “Take her back to Flanagan; it's her work, and she must stand by it.”
“Is she really dead?” asked Pinky.
“Looks like it, and serves Flanagan right. I've told her over and over that Nell wouldn't stand it long if she didn't ease up a little. Flesh isn't iron.”
Again she examined the child carefully, but without the slightest sign of feeling.
“It's all the same now who has her,” she said, turning off from the settee. “Take her back to Flanagan.”
But Pinky would not touch the child, nor could threat or persuasion lead her to do so. While they were contending, Flanagan, who had fired herself up with half a pint of whisky, came storming through the door in a blind rage and screaming out,
“Where's my Nell? I want my Nell!”
Catching sight of the child's inanimate form lying on the settee, she pounced down upon it like some foul bird and bore it off, cursing and striking the senseless clay in her insane fury.
Pinky, horrified at the dreadful sight, and not sure that the child was really dead, and so insensible to pain, made a movement to follow, but Norah caught her arm with a tight grip and held her back.