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Updated: June 2, 2025
The earth-old cry of unavailing, inevitable remorse. So there was no one but Francey now. He did not know what he hoped, or indeed if he hoped for anything. He turned to her instinctively. And when the door of the ward opened he did, in fact, feel a faint lifting of the flat indifference which had followed on that one difficult rending surrender. He went to meet her.
Only Francey But even in the old days it was only because of Francey that the Banditti had meant anything to him. The head waiter pushed across the counter a jug of yellowish liquid in which floated orange peel and a few tinned, dubious-looking cherries. "Take it, for God's sake! People who want muck like that ought to keep to Soho."
It was impossible to tell the whole truth namely, that because Francey had said she was to be a doctor he had said he would be one too, and a better one at that. He gave half-measure. "I want to be." "Well, that's a good reason. It might be a great profession, but it has its liars and tricksters like the rest.
And then, impulsively, she flung her arm about him and drew him close to her. His head was on her breast, and for one uncertain moment she was not Francey Wilmot at all, but the warm living spirit of the sunlight, of the quiet trees and the grass in which they lay of all the things of which he was afraid. "Because you're such an odd, sad, little boy "
He did not tell her that there had been times when, to keep their compact, they had gone without altogether, when Christine had fainted over her typewriter and he had watched her from out of a horrible, quivering mist too sick with hunger to help, or even to care much. He did not want Francey to be sorry for him. "And the tips?" she asked, with grave concern. "I hope we played the game.
Decidedly, 'e is getting better, that young man." Her shameless, infectious laughter caught him by the throat. He wanted to laugh too, and then thrust her empty, laughing face down into the water of her comic fountain till she died. There were people who were better dead. He had said so and it was true, in spite of Francey Wilmot and her childish sentimentality.
But poor old Howard is always so hard up " "Oh, good enough. Usually I get more than the others, and they hate me for it. I'm quicker and I've got clean hands. People like that." "I saw your hands first," Francey said, "and I knew at once that you were something different." It was too dark for her to see his face. Yet he turned away hastily. He spoke as though he did not care at all.
Cosgrave and Connie Edwards nodded to one another and took hands and were gone. Francey, too, slipped to her feet. She gathered up her hat and coat, her silence effortless. She did not so much as glance at Robert, but at the head of the steep, ladder-like stairs he overtook her. "Francey listen " With one foot on the lower step, her back against the wall, she waited for him.
Francey, what have you been doing with yourself? And you'd have tried to give me a leg up, if it only ran to buying a gardenia for old times' sake." He suspected her of poking fun at him. And yet there was that subtle underlying seriousness about her and a frank, disarming kindliness. "You think I'm down on my luck," he retorted, "and so anybody has a right to butt in." "Not a right.
Christine shook her head. She was frowning up out of the open window a little anxiously. "What would you do with a tired old woman?" "Ruffles will carry you. Throw out your chest, Ruffles, and look fierce. What's the use of a hefty brute like that if it isn't useful?" "And when you're on my hill," Francey said with a mysterious nod, "you'll understand it better than any of us."
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