They spoke but
seldom; their voices were rarely raised above the hoarse half-whisper
of anxiety known only to men who wait in patience for a thing of
horror to come to pass, an inevitable, remorseless thing from which
there is no escape.
They shivered as they crouched close to the red-hot stove,
notwithstanding the almost unbearable heat of the foul, windowless
room in which they were gathered. Their faces were pallid, their eyes
bloodshot, their flesh a-quiver.
Occasionally one or another of them would go to the door to listen for
sounds in the black passage beyond. He would resume his seat without a
word to his fellows, each of whom looked up with stark, questioning
eyes. Then they would fall to staring at the walls again, or at the
floor, their chins in their hands. At their feet lay the newspapers,
eagerly read and discarded by each and every member of this little
group. There was a "noon extra," fresh from a ten o'clock press. It
had been the last to fall into their hands.
They tried to smoke, but the water of mortal terror filled their
mouths. The smell of dead, dank tobacco pervaded the room.
Pages:
575
576
577
578
579
580
581
582
583
584
585
586
587
588
589
590
591
592
593
594
595
596
597
598
599