"I thought you'd left me," he said, beginning to cry and streaking the
tears about his face with his dirty hands. She was shivering as she bent
over him, her tears mingling with his.
"I'm here with you, dear," she told him.
"Are you my wife? Wan' wom'n--beau-ful whi' shoulders! N'est ce pas?
Parlez-vous Franshay, mam-selle? Ah oui, oui."
"Louis, you mustn't, _mustn't_ talk that beastly French, please," she
sobbed. He thumped on the floor, staring round wildly with glazed eyes.
There was a tap at the door. Marcella, glad of any diversion, went and
opened it.
"I say, kid, keep your boss quiet if you can," whispered Mrs. King. "My
young chaps down below can't get their proper sleep for that row, and
they've got a hard day's work before them if he hasn't."
"Mrs. King, whatever am I to do with him?" she cried frantically. "I
don't believe he knows it's me. And he's so horribly dirty."
"Oh, go an' sit on his knee a bit, kid, and make up to him. That's the
best way to make them go quiet. He's at the vulgar stage to-night, your
boss is. But do keep him quiet. Not that I'm not sorry for you, kid,"
she added, as she turned away. "They're beasts, men are. Mine's asleep
as it happens."
He was still raving, saying disgusting things that, unfortunately, were
in English this time. Looking at him in the candlelight she felt
terrified of him and utterly unable to treat him as a sick man and not a
wicked one.
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