"We must stop it at any
cost. Go--go promise her anything. Tell her I'll send her to New York, to
Europe, anywhere to get her out of that wretch's clutches. My poor child!
My poor baby!"
Her grief was no less violent than her anger had been, and her tearless
sobs almost shook her worn old frame to pieces.
Quin knew just how she felt. It had been like that with him last night
when he heard the news. With one stride he was beside her and had
gathered her into his arms.
"There, there!" he said tenderly. "It's going to be all right. We are
going to find a way out."
This unexpected caress, probably the first one Madam had received in many
years, reduced her to a state of unprecedented humility. She transferred
her resentment from Eleanor to Harold Phipps, and announced herself ready
to follow whatever course Quin suggested.
"I'd offer her just this and nothing more," he advised: "The fare to New
York, tuition at the dramatic school, and ten dollars a week."
"She can't live on that."
"Yes, she can. Rose Martel does."
Madam became truculent at once.
"Don't quote that girl to me. Eleanor's been used to very different
surroundings.
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