She was
not asleep, but sunk in a stupor with a glimmer of vision and an
elusive pulse. He should not have listened to Bella but had a doctor as
Frazee had advised. It appeared now that--with all Flavilla held for
him--he had been strangely neglectful. At the same time he was
conscious of the steady increase of his hatred for Bowman. This was
natural, he told himself; Bowman in a way was the past--all that he,
Doret, had put out of his life. At least he had believed that
accomplished, yet here it was back again, alive and threatening;
drinking beer in his rooms, whispering to his wife, putting the thought
of Flavilla from his head.
In the morning even Bella admitted that Flavilla might be sick and a
doctor necessary. He took one look at his daughter's burning face,
heard the shrill labor of her breathing, and hurried downstairs with a
set face. He was standing with Bella in the hall when June Bowman
descended.
"Flavilla ain't right," she told him.
The latter promptly exhibited the wad of money. "Whatever you need," he
said.
"Put it away," Lemuel replied shortly. "I don't want any of that for
Flavilla."
Bowman studied him. Doret made no effort to mask his bitterness, and
the other whistled faintly. Bella laughed, turning from her husband.
"He's cracked," she declared; "you'll get no decency off him. A body
would think I had been in jail and him looking out for her all those
ten years and more. I can say thank you, though; we'll need your help,
and glad.
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