Mrs. Brandeis was
not talking now. But she was breathing. It filled the
room, that breathing; it filled the house. Fanny took her
mother's hand, that hand with the work-hardened palm and the
broken nails. It was very cold. She looked down at it.
The nails were blue. She began to rub it. She looked up
into the faces of the two men. She picked up the other
hand--snatched at it. "Look here!" she said. "Look here!"
And then she stood up. The vague, clammy thing that had
been wound about her heart suddenly relaxed. And at that
something icy hot rushed all over her body and shook her.
She came around to the foot of the bed, and gripped it with
her two hands. Her chin was thrust forward, and her eyes
were bright and staring. She looked very much like her
mother, just then. It was a fighting face. A desperate
face.
"Look here," she began, and was surprised to find that she
was only whispering. She wet her lips and smiled, and tried
again, forming the words carefully with her lips. "Look
here. She's dying--isn't she? Isn't she! She's dying,
isn't she?"
Doctor Hertz pursed his lips.
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