i f6c06dd9cf3fe221 by Unknown (the false prince .TXT) 📕

But Rodney didn't answer, he had started upon his job. His hands moved swiftly; he braced himself and pulled, gently pressing . easing. He worked for some minutes, and Davidson, who watched his every move, thought: Good hands, no quivers there. Yet he's as strung up and as taut as a bow. Wonder what brought him this way . funny fellow.

Why did he take old Kelly's place when Anderson's was going up Westoe end? Could have had a couple of titles on his books there. But still, apparently it isn't money he wants; old windbag Richards says he's got at least two thousand a year private income. Whew! Two thousand a year I . Davidson had a vision of a bright shining clinic, tilted with the latest appliances. Wonder what he does want; he's certainly not the welfare type. Whatever his aim, I bet it doesn't meet with his lady-wife's . "No use," said Rodney, raising his eyes to Davidson;

'it's wedged. I'll have to cut. " He nodded towards his case.

Davidson handed him an instrument. There was a sharp snip, snip, a quick dabbing of spirits, and his hands were once more pulling, easing, pressing. He was no longer cold; beads of sweat ran down his forehead, falling from his brow on to his hands. His chin was drawn in, his beard lying like an arrow on his shirt front. A little more, a little more, he encouraged himself. Ah, the head! Now then . now then .

easy, but make it quick. She can't stand much more; Davidson is anxious about that pulse. There, there . a little more. Oh, hell!

don't say it's going to be obstinate now 1 Pulling, easing, pressing, it went on. The sweat was

running into his eyes now and his shirt was no longer white.

Davidson's expression became pitying. Poor Kate! It was practically up. Still, this fellow was good; if she were paying hundreds she wouldn't have had anyone better. But these things happened. ,.

"A ... ah!" It was an exclamation of triumph as much as relief.

Rodney slowly withdrew the red body covered with silvery slime. For a second it lay across both his hands, a girl child . to be named Annie Hannigan, and who was to help make and to almost mar his career.

THE KITCHEN

The kitchen was bright and gleaming. From the open fireplace the coal glowed a deeper red in contrast with the shining black leaded bob, with the oven to its right and the nook for pans to its left. It sent down its glow on to the steel-topped and brass-railed fender, where its reflections appeared like delicate rose douds seen through a silver curtain. The fire glinted on the mahogany legs of the kitchen-table and on the cups spread on the white, patched doth. It shed its glow over the red wood of the chiffonier standing against the wall opposite, and over the brass-knobbed handle of the staircase door. The hard, wood saddle, standing along the wall to the left of the fire-place, took on an innocent deception from the glow; its flock-stuffed cushions looked soft and inviting. Even the sneck of the door that led to the front room had glints of white along its black handle. But it was to the window that the fire lent its most enchanting grace. With its six red earthenware pots of coloured hyacinths, and framed in the dolly-tinted lace curtains, starched to a stiffness which kept their folds in perpetual billows, it looked like a startling, bright painting. Never had that window-sill upheld such beauty.

Hyacinths at any time of the year were things one just dreamed of. But at Christmas 1 and in her kitchen 1 they made Sarah Hannigan feel that life was changing, that it was becoming easier, and that before she was really old she would know peace . she didn't ask for happiness, just peace. And she asked herself, as she looked out over the bulbs to the tiny backyard and to the backs of the houses opposite, hadn't she had more peace this last year than she had had for the previous seventeen years. She had thought life would become unbearable when Kate had come home like that last Christmas. And it was unbearable for nearly a month after Annie was born. But when Kate got that place in Westoe things had seemed to change. It wasn't only that Kate gave her four-and-six a week out of her five shillings and God alone knew what a difference that had made--it was that things had seemed to happen to keep Tim off her, that his eighteen years' persecution of her was easing at last.

First, the baby had been fretful, and for most of the winter she had had to keep it downstairs in the warmth of the kitchen. So she had slept, thankfully, on the saddle. Then she had been covered with that rash, and the smell of the ointment the doctor had given her had been nauseating to Tim. He had sworn and raged, and she had thankfully left the feather bed and her husband's side for the hard comfort of the saddle again. But a rash doesn't last for ever, although she had lengthened its stay by weeks, until he had begun to get suspicious.

When she had returned to the feather bed the old nightmare began again.

Sometimes she would wait a week, or even two, until, blind with rage at his own impotence and the caducity of his passion, he would repeat the old cry, "She isn't minel Tell me, or I'll throttle it out of you. Is she? Is she? She's the artist's bastard, isn't she? Tell