The entrance of the lady with the transferable hair cut short her
revery.
"Mr. Breen says come up, ma'am," she said in a subdued voice. It
was astonishing how little time it took for Miss Felicia's
personality to have its effect.
Up the uncarpeted stairs marched the great lady, down an equally
bare hall lined on either side by bedroom doors, some marked by
unblacked shoes others by tin trays holding fragments of late or
early breakfasts, the flaring cap obsequiously pointing the way
until the two had reached a door at the end of the corridor.
"Now I won't bother you any more," said Miss Felicia. "Thank you
very much. Are you in here Mr. Breen?" she called in a cheery
voice as she pushed open the door, and advanced to his bedside:--
"Oh, you poor fellow! Oh, I AM so sorry!"
The boy lay on a cot-bed pushed close to the wall. His face was
like chalk; his eyes deep set in his head; his scalp one criss-
cross of bandages, and his right hand and wrist a misshapen lump
of cotton wadding and splints.
"No, don't move.
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