The
tense body relaxed, the head fell aside, down the pillow.
Gerald stood transfixed, his soul echoing in horror. He would move, but
he could not. He could not move his limbs. His brain seemed to re-echo,
like a pulse.
The nurse in white softly entered. She glanced at Gerald, then at the
bed.
'Ah!' came her soft whimpering cry, and she hurried forward to the dead
man. 'Ah-h!' came the slight sound of her agitated distress, as she
stood bending over the bedside. Then she recovered, turned, and came
for towel and sponge. She was wiping the dead face carefully, and
murmuring, almost whimpering, very softly: 'Poor Mr Crich!--Poor Mr
Crich! Poor Mr Crich!'
'Is he dead?' clanged Gerald's sharp voice.
'Oh yes, he's gone,' replied the soft, moaning voice of the nurse, as
she looked up at Gerald's face. She was young and beautiful and
quivering. A strange sort of grin went over Gerald's face, over the
horror. And he walked out of the room.
He was going to tell his mother. On the landing he met his brother
Basil.
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