But he didn't hide her--not yet--with
a sheet. That would follow soon enough. The blueness was receding,
leaving her pinched, but white. She had always been pale.... By God, he
had forgotten to tell them. Lee, stumbling down the stairs, found
Daniel, the doctor, and the proprietor of the hotel, Venalez, talking
together. As he approached there was a flash of premonition on his
brother's broad unstirring face. Lee said humbly:
"She is dead."
Fancett, with Daniel Randon, went up at once, but he lingered, facing
the Cuban. Venalez had a long brown countenance, with a disordered
moustache. His trousers were thrust into the customary dingy boots, but
his shirt was confined at the waist, and he had dispensed with a
machete. He grew uneasy under Lee's stare, and shuffled his feet; then,
behind a soiled thin hand, he coughed. It was clear that he wished
intensely to escape, but was held by his conceptions of the obligations
of conduct. "The suddenness--" Lee said, and then paused with a
furrowed brow; "that's what surprises me. She was as well as you, and
singing, yes--singing, that she didn't want to be a wife. I thought she
had tripped on the loose silk thing she wore; and then I was certain
that she had fainted from your heat." He bore heavily on the word your,
and then proceeded to curse the atmosphere, in a heavy manner
suggesting that it were a property, a condition, under the direction of
the hotel proprietor.
Pages:
324
325
326
327
328
329
330
331
332
333
334
335
336
337
338
339
340
341
342
343
344
345
346
347
348