That afternoon they had moved Cass
into Rose's room in the hope of getting more air from the western
exposure; but only the hot smell of the asphalt and the stifling odor of
car smoke came through the curtainless window. The gas-jet, turned very
low, threw distorted shadows on the bureau with its medley of toilet
articles and medicine bottles. Through the open door of the closet could
be seen Rose's personal belongings; under the table were a pair of
high-heeled slippers; and two white stockings made white streaks across
the window-sill.
Quin sat by Cass's bedside, with his hand clasped to Rose's cheek, and
fought a battle that had been raging within him for days. Without being
in the least in love with Rose, he wanted desperately to take her in his
arms and comfort her. They were both so tired, so miserable, so
desperately afraid of that shadowy presence that hovered over Cass. They
were practically alone in the house, accountable to no one, and drawn
together by an overwhelming anxiety. In Rose's state of emotional tension
she was responsive to his every look and gesture. He had but to hold out
his arms and she would sink into them.
Again and again his eyes traveled from her bright tumbled head to Cass's
flushed face, with its absurd round nose and eyes that could no longer
keep watch over a pleasure-loving sister.
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