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Don't answer me. You know that I am dy-ing and I want her." Miss Etta, the tears streaming over her large face, went to do his bidding. I could hear her lumbersome footsteps going down the crazy outside stairway. He gave me a triumphant look as I lifted his arm, then abruptly he drew away from me. He had an ingrained fear of drugs of any sort.
From under the torn quilt the man stared back at me, with much of his old penetration, despite the fever that racked him. "I want Lisbeth," were his first words to me. I shook my head. "She cannot come just now," I told him, hand on his wrist. "But we are here to do everything for you." "Tel-e-phone her," he said with his old emphasis on each syllable, "and tell her that I'm dy-ing.
And Marya, far from fearing death, regretted that it was so slow in coming, and was glad when her children died. Death they did not fear, but of every disease they had an exaggerated terror. The merest trifle was enough a stomach upset, a slight chill, and Granny would be wrapped up on the stove, and would begin moaning loudly and incessantly: "I am dy-ing!"
His words came finally in monotonous cadences. "I am dy-ing," he said. "You will pray?" I saw her catch her breath. My own hung in my throat and choked me. He was watching her intently now with overweighted gray eyes, that could not make one entirely forget the long cunning line of the mouth. What courage did she have to withstand this? He was dying of that there could be little doubt.
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