A hateful faintness
was coming over him again. On the edge of the crowd a girl with a
middle-aged woman had stopped, and the girl was making her way toward
him.
"What is it, Mr. Cronklin? Not one of our boys?" The clear voice
reached him as if at his side. He steadied himself, stared, and tried
to speak.
"Frances," he said, and held out his hands. "You've made me walk so
far, Frances, and Christmas is--"
In the snow his feet slipped. The cop was such a fool. He had never
fainted in his life.
Some one was standing near him. Who was it, and where was he? This
wasn't his room. On his elbow, he looked around. Nothing was
familiar. It must be a woman's room; he could see photographs and a
pin-cushion on the bureau, and flowers were growing on a table near
the window. The bed he was in was small and white. His was big and
brass. What had happened? Slowly it came to him, and he started to get
up, then fell back. The surge of blood receded, and again there was
giddiness. Had he lost her? Had she, too, slipped out of his hands
because of his confounded fall? It was a durned outrage that he should
have fallen.
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