He did not care, for that
matter. It seemed to him just then that all the world must know
what was so vitally important, so transcendently wonderful.
Not until Audrey's eyes closed again, and he saw that she was
sleeping, did he loosen his arms from around her.
When at last he went out to the stiffly furnished hospital parlor,
he found Mrs. Haverford sitting there alone, still knitting. But
he rather thought she had been crying. There was an undeniably
moist handkerchief on her knee.
"She roused a little while ago," he said, trying to speak quietly,
and as though Audrey's rousing were not the wonder that it was.
"She seemed very comfortable. And now she's sleeping."
"The dear child!" said Mrs. Haverford. "If she had died, after
everything - " Her plump face quivered. "Things have never been
very happy for her, Clayton."
"I'm afraid not." He went to a window and stood looking out. The
city was not quiet, but its mighty roar of the day was lowered to a
monotonous, drowsy humming.
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