Naomi
Holland never complained; when the agony was at its worst, she
shut her teeth more firmly over her bloodless lip, and her great
black eyes glared at the blank wall before in a way that gave her
attendants what they called "the creeps," but no word or moan
escaped her.
Between the paroxysms she kept up her keen interest in the life
that went on about her. Nothing escaped her sharp, alert eyes
and ears. This evening she lay spent on the crumpled pillows;
she had had a bad spell in the afternoon and it had left her very
weak. In the dim light her extremely long face looked
corpse-like already. Her black hair lay in a heavy braid over
the pillow and down the counterpane. It was all that was left of
her beauty, and she took a fierce joy in it. Those long,
glistening, sinuous tresses must be combed and braided every day,
no matter what came.
A girl of fourteen was curled up on a chair at the head of the
bed, with her head resting on the pillow. The boy at the window
was her half-brother; but, between Christopher Holland and Eunice
Carr, not the slightest resemblance existed.
Presently the sibilant silence was broken by a low,
half-strangled sob. The sick woman, who had been watching a
white evening star through the cherry boughs, turned impatiently
at the sound.
"I wish you'd get over that, Eunice," she said sharply. "I don't
want any one crying over me until I'm dead; and then you'll have
plenty else to do, most likely.
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