Amy had
returned to the room at four o'clock, and remained till far into
the night; she was physically exhausted, and could do little but
sit in a chair by the bedside and shed silent tears, or gaze at
vacancy in the woe of her sudden desolation. Telegrams had been
exchanged with her mother, who was to arrive in Brighton
to-morrow morning; the child's funeral would probably be on the
third day from this.
When she rose to go away for the night, leaving the nurse in
attendance, Reardon seemed to lie in a state of unconsciousness,
but just as she was turning from the bed, he opened his eyes and
pronounced her name.
'I am here, Edwin,' she answered, bending over him.
'Will you let Biffen know?' he said in low but very clear tones.
'That you are ill dear? I will write at once, or telegraph, if
you like. What is his address?'
He had closed his eyes again, and there came no reply. Amy
repeated her question twice; she was turning from him in
hopelessness when his voice became audible.
'I can't remember his new address. I know it, but I can't
remember.
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