She was incapable of uttering a word.
Ignatius Wetzel stood her friend for once. His croaking voice
filled the empty gap of silence exactly at the right time. He
doggedly held the handkerchief under her eyes. He obstinately
repeated: "Mercy Merrick is an English name. Is it not so?"
Horace Holmcroft looked up from the table. "Mercy Merrick?" he
said. "Who is Mercy Merrick?"
Surgeon Wetzel pointed to the corpse on the bed.
"I have found the name on the handkerchief, "he said. "This lady,
it seems, had not curiosity enough to look for the name of her
own countrywoman." He made that mocking allusion to Mercy with a
tone which was almost a tone of suspicion, and a look which was
almost a look of contempt. Her quick temper instantly resented
the discourtesy of which she had been made the object. The
irritation of the moment--so often do the most trifling motives
determine the most serious human actions--decided her on the
course that she should pursue. She turned her back scornfully on
the rude old man, and left him in the delusion that he had
discovered the dead woman's name.
Horace returned to the business of filling up the form.
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