“I swear––oh, you’re hurting me!”
Mollie Babcock let her hands drop.
“I believe you”––wearily. “It seemed that everybody knew. God help me!” She sank to the bed, her face in her hands. “I believe I’m going mad!”
“Mollie––Mollie Babcock! You mustn’t talk so––you mustn’t!” The seconds ticked away. Save for the quick catch of suppressed sobs, not a sound was heard in the mean, austere little room; not an echo penetrated from the outside world.
Then suddenly the brown head lifted from the pillow, and Mollie faced almost fiercely about.
“You think I am––am mad already.” Then, feverishly: “Don’t you?”
Helpless at a crisis, Annie Warren could only stand silent, the pink, childish under-lip held tight between her teeth to prevent a quiver. 256 Her fingers played nervously with the filmy lace shawl about her shoulders.
Mollie advanced a step. “Don’t you?”
Annie found her voice.
“No, no, no! Oh, Mollie, no, of course not! You––Mollie––” Instinct all at once came to her rescue. With a sudden movement she gathered the woman in her arms, her tender heart quivering in her voice and glistening in her eyes. “Mollie, I can’t bear to have you so! I love you, Mollie. Tell me what it is––me––your friend, Annie.”