It was dreadful to be so far away from them. But Mr. Flushing
shook his head; he did not think that now--later perhaps one might be
able to help. Here Mrs. Flushing rose stiffly, turned her back to them,
and walked to the dressing-room opposite. As she walked, they could see
her breast slowly rise and slowly fall. But her grief was silent. She
shut the door behind her.
When she was alone by herself she clenched her fists together, and began
beating the back of a chair with them. She was like a wounded animal.
She hated death; she was furious, outraged, indignant with death, as
if it were a living creature. She refused to relinquish her friends to
death. She would not submit to dark and nothingness. She began to pace
up and down, clenching her hands, and making no attempt to stop the
quick tears which raced down her cheeks. She sat still at last, but she
did not submit. She looked stubborn and strong when she had ceased to
cry.
In the next room, meanwhile, Wilfrid was talking to Mrs. Thornbury with
greater freedom now that his wife was not sitting there.
"That's the worst of these places," he said. "People will behave as
though they were in England, and they're not. I've no doubt myself that
Miss Vinrace caught the infection up at the villa itself. She probably
ran risks a dozen times a day that might have given her the illness.
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