"
He was glad to get Lillian out of her sight and hearing. With every
muscle relaxed, almost collapsed, curiously ghastly in her gay gown, she
was lifted bodily into the vehicle, repeating constantly with bloodless
lips and a strange, false, mechanical voice, "Take me to my dead child!"
Once as they spun swiftly through the misty sheen and dewy shadow, the
moisture-laden boughs that thrust across the narrow roadway now and again
filliping them on the cheeks with perfumed showers, she turned that
death-smitten face toward him and said in her natural, smooth tones, "You
have your revenge at last. It couldn't be a heavier blow!"
"I want you to be still!" he cried with vehement rudeness. "I can't drive
straight if you rattle me. I am taking you to your child."
And once more broke forth the eerie shrilling anew: "Take me to my child!
Take me to my dead child!"
At the first house that Bayne roused, he was encumbered and harassed by
her strange intolerance that they should speak of Briscoe at all; for the
summer sojourner was a favorite with his humble neighbors, and a great
tumult of concern ensued on the suggestion that he had encountered
disaster in some sort.
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