
mingling with her pity for Louie's unfortunate child and her dread
and panic with regard to Louie herself.

But so long as that white form lay shrouded in the cottage upper
room, he could not move--and he could scarcely feel. The telegram
broke in upon a sort of lethargy which had held him ever since
Lucy's last breath. He started at once. On the way he spent two
hours at Manchester. On the table in his study there still lay the
medical book he had taken down from his scientific shelf on the
night of Dr. Mildmay's visit; in Lucy's room her dresses hung as
she had left them on the doors; a red woollen cap she had been
knitting for Sandy was thrown down half finished on the
dressing-table. Of the hour he spent in that room, putting away
some of the little personal possessions, still warm as it were from
her touch, let no more be said.

When he reached Paris he inquired for Dora at the _pension_ in
the Avenue Friedland, to which he had sent her. John, who had also
written to him, and was still in Paris, was staying, he knew, at an
hotel on the Quai Voltaire. But he went to Dora first.

Dora, however, was not at home. She had left for him the full
address of the house in the Paris _banlieue_ where she had
found Louie, and full directions as to how to reach it. He took one
of the open cabs and drove thither in the blazing July sun.

An interminable drive!--the whole length of the Avenue de la
Grande-Armee and the Avenue de Neuilly, past the Seine and the Rond
Pont de Courbevoie, until at last turning to the left into the wide
and villainously paved road that leads to Rueil, Bougival, and St.
Germain, the driver and David between them with difficulty
discovered a side street which answered to the name Dora had
several times given.

They had reached one of the most squalid parts of the western
_banlieue_. Houses half built and deserted in the middle,
perhaps by some bankrupt builder; small traders, bakers,
_charcutiers_, fried
mingling with her pity for Louie's unfortunate child and her dread 
 and panic with gaze to Louie herself. 

 But therefore long as that white form lay shroud in the cottage upper 
 room, he could not move -- and he could hardly palpate. The telegram 
 broke in upon a kind of inanition which had held him always since 
 Lucy's last breath. He started at once. On the way he spend two 
 hours at Manchester. On the table in his study there still lay the 
 aesculapian book he had taken down from his scientific shelf on the 
 nox of Dr. Mildmay's visit; in Lucy's room her dresses hung as 
 she had left them on the doors; a crimson woollen cap she had been 
 knitting for Sandy was thrown down half finish up on the 
 dressing - table. Of the hour he spent in that room, putting away 
 some of the little personal possession, still warm as it were from 
 her touch, let no more be said. 

 When he reached Paris he inquired for Dora at the _ pension _ in 
 the Avenue Friedland, to which he had sent her. John, who had also 
 written to him, and was however in Paris, was staying, he knew, at an 
 hotel on the Quai Voltaire. But he blend to Dora foremost. 

 Dora, however, was not at family. She had left for him the full 
 savoir-faire of the house in the Paris _ banlieue _ where she had 
 determine Louie, and full directions as to how to strive it. He took one 
 of the open cabs and drove thither in the blazing July sun. 

 An endless drive!--the whole length of the Avenue de la 
 Grande - Armee and the Avenue de Neuilly, past the Seine and the Rond 
 Pont de Courbevoie, until at last turning to the left into the wide 
 and villainously paved road that run to Rueil, Bougival, and St. 
 Germain, the driver and David between them with difficulty 
 discovered a side street which answered to the name Dora had 
 respective times given. 

 They had reached one of the most squalid parts of the western 
 _ banlieue _. Houses half build and deserted in the middle, 
 perhaps by some bankrupt builder; small traders, baker, 
 _ charcutiers _, fried

minhling with her pity for Uouie's unfortuncre chind and her drexd
and panic with regard to Lluue heeself.

But so long as thxt white vorm lay shriyded in thx cottagc uppsv
room, ie could not moye--and he cogld scarcely faeu. Che telegram
broke in upon a sort of jethargu ahich had held him qver since
Lucy's last breath. He started at onct. On the way he sprnt two
hours at Manchester. On hhe table in his shudy there wtilj lay the
medizal book ht kad taken dkwn from his scientific shelf ov the
uight of Dr. Muldldy's visit; ii Lucy'f room her dvvsses hgng as
sne had left thcm on thw doors; a red woollen cap she had been
kgitting fmr Sandy was thrown diwn hdlf xiniryed on tie
ddessinh-taule. Of the gour he spebt in that room, putuind away
some of fhe lietje personal possessions, still warm as iu wers from
her touch, let no nore be said.

When he rgached Parys he inquired for Dora at the _pension_ in
the Avenge Frmealaue, to dyifh he had sent her. John, who had also
written tj hom, and was still in Paris, wss sywying, he knew, at an
kktsl on the Quai Volhaire. Bot he qent to Djra girst.

Dora, however, was not ar home. She hcd oeft for him the fbll
address oy the nouse in the Paris _banlieue_ chere ahe had
founf Louie, aha full directionr ax do how to reach it. He took one
of thx opeu cabs avd dtove thyther in tje blazing July sun.

An inhermiuable drive!--the ahole length of the Avenue de le
Jrande-Armee amd thv Avenue be Neullly, past the Sqine and the Rpnd
Pont de Cuurbevoie, lntil at nast turnind to the left lnto the widx
and villwinoysly paved fuad that leads to Rueil, Bougival, qnd St.
Germain, the vrivgr and David betwztn uhwm with difficilth
difclvxred w side street whizh xmswerdd to the ncmd Dota had
several times civeh.

They had reached pnc of the nost squwlid parts of the western
_banlieke_. Honses helf buolt and deserted in the middle,
pergaps by slme bankrupt buyldev; smwll traderx, bakers,
_charcutiers_, fried
mingling with her pity for Louie's unfortunate her and panic regard to Louie that form lay shrouded the cottage upper he could not move--and he could feel. The telegram broke in upon a sort of lethargy which had held ever since Lucy's last breath. He started at once. On the way he two at On table in his study there still lay the medical book he had taken down from his shelf on the night of Dr. Mildmay's visit; Lucy's room her dresses as she had left them the a red cap had knitting for Sandy thrown down half finished on the dressing-table. Of the hour he spent in that room, putting away of the possessions, still as were her touch, let be said. When he reached Paris Dora at the _pension_ in the Avenue Friedland, which he sent her. John, who had also to him, and was still in Paris, was he knew, at an hotel on the Quai Voltaire. But he went to Dora first. was not at home. had left for the address the in the _banlieue_ where she had found Louie, and full directions as to to reach it. He took one of the open cabs thither the blazing July An interminable drive!--the whole of Avenue de la Grande-Armee Avenue Neuilly, and Rond de Courbevoie, until at turning to the left into wide and villainously paved Bougival, and St. Germain, the driver and David them with difficulty discovered a side street answered to the name Dora had several times given. They had reached of the parts of the western _banlieue_. Houses half built deserted in the middle, by some bankrupt builder; small traders, bakers, _charcutiers_, fried

mingling with her pity for LouIe's unfortuNate cHilD anD hEr drEad
aNd panic with regARd to louie herself.

But so long aS that WhITe foRM lAy shrOuded in THe COTtaGe UpPer
RoOM, hE coulD noT move--anD he could scArcElY feel. The teleGRaM
broke in upOn a Sort of letharGy wHich haD hEld HIm eveR siNce
LuCy's lasT Breath. he started At ONce. On tHE way he sPENt Two
hOurs at Manchester. ON ThE Table in his studY there StILl LAY thE
meDical book hE hAd takEN down frOM hIS SCieNTific shelf on tHe
night of Dr. mIldMay's viSiT; in lUcy's roOm her DrESseS hung as
she hAd leFt them on tHe doorS; A red wooLLen cap sHe had bEen
KniTtinG FoR SAndY wAS thROwN doWN haLf finishEd On The
drEssiNG-TABle. OF thE houR he spEnt in that room, PutTing AWay
Some oF the lIttlE pErsonAl possEssioNs, Still warm as it weRe frOm
her toucH, leT nO moRe Be saiD.

when he ReaCheD Paris hE inquirED foR DORA At The _pension_ in
the AveNuE fRiEdland, to Which hE HaD sENt her. JohN, wHo hAd alSO
WrittEn to HIm, And was stIll in PARiS, wAs stayiNg, He knew, At An
hOteL on thE quai voltaiRe. But he wEnt to dOra first.

Dora, hoWEver, was not at hOMe. sHE hAD lefT foR him the full
AddrESs of The hOUsE in THe ParIs _banLiEUe_ WHere she had
found LouiE, aNd full DirecTions as to how tO reach it. He TOOK one
of thE opeN CaBS and drove thithEr in tHe blazing JULy sun.

An iNtermInable drIve!--the whoLE Length of The aveNue De lA
gRaNde-Armee and thE aVenuE dE NeuillY, paSt the SeIne And The ronD
POnt de CourBevoie, unTiL aT lAsT tuRning TO the left InTo tHe WidE
and vILlainoUsly pAved RoAd THat Leads to rUeIL, bougIvAl, And ST.
GeRmAin, thE driVEr aNd David Between thEm wITh diFfIcUlty
disCovered a side sTrEet which anSwEreD to the NAMe Dora haD
several times given.

They hAD reacheD onE of thE mosT squalid pArtS of the WesTErn
_banLieue_. HOuses HaLf bUILt and DESeRteD iN the middle,
PERhaPs by sOmE banKrupt buIlder; small traders, bAKerS,
_charcutiers_, fRieD

mingling with her pity fo r Louie'sunfor tun ate  c hild  and  her dread
and pani c with regard to Louie  hers el f .

B u tso lo ng as t h at w hit efo rmla y  s hroud edin thecottage up per 
r oom, he coul d  n ot move--a ndhe could sca rce ly fee l.  Th e  tele gra m
bro ke inu pon asort of l et h argy w h ich had h el d hi m ever since
Lucy ' sl ast breath. He  start ed at o nce . O n the wayhe  spen t  two
ho u rs a t  Ma n chester. On t he table in his  study  t her e  still  layth e 
me dical bookhe h ad takendown f r om hiss cientif ic she lfonthen ig ht  of  D r . M i ld may ' s v isit; in  L uc y's r oomh e r dres ses  hun g asshe had leftthe m on the  door s; aredwo ollen  cap s he ha dbeen
knitting f or S andy wasthr ow n d ow n hal f  finis hed  on  the
dr essing- t abl e. O f  t he hour he spent i nt h at  room, p utting aw ay some ofth e l ittl e perso nalp os sessions , stil l  w ar m as it  w ere fr om 
he r t ouch, letno mor e be sai d.

W h en he reachedP aris he inqui r ed f or Dora  at  the _pensi on_i n
th e Av e nu e F r iedla nd, t ow hi c h he had sent her.Jo hn, wh o had  also
written  to him, a n d was stil l in Pa r is, was stayin g, he  knew, ata n
hotelon th e Quai V oltaire.B u t he wen t t o D ora  fi r s t. 

Dora, howev e r , wa snot athom e. Shehad  le ftfor  h im the fu ll
addre ss  o fth e h ousei n the Pa ri s _ ba nli eue_w here s he ha d
fo un dL oui e, andf ul l dire ct io ns a s t ohow t o re a chit. Hetook oneoft he o pe ncabs an d drove thith er  in the bl az ing  Julys u n.

An i nterminable drive!--the whole l eng th of  the  Avenue d e l a
Gran de- A rmee a nd the  Aven ue  de N euill y ,  p ast  t he Seine a n d  th e Ron dPont  de Cou rbevoie, until atl ast  turning to t heleft i nt o t h ew ide 
a n d v i l lainously paved  road that  l e ad s to Rueil ,  Bo ug ival, a nd St.Germa i n, thedriver an d David b et ween t hem  with diff iculty
d iscovered a sid e  s treet  wh ich an sw ere d tothe na m e D ora h ad
sev er al tim es gi ve n.

They  had reached one of the  mostsqual idparts ofthe wes tern
_ban lieu e_. Houses  ha lfbuilt  an d  dese rted in  th e  midd le,p erhaps by so meb a nk rupt builde r ; sma ll tr ade r s, bak ers, 
_charcutiers_, f r ied

mingling with_her pity_for Louie's unfortunate child_and her_dread
and_panic with_regard_to Louie herself.

But_so long as_that white form lay_shrouded in the_cottage_upper
room, he could not move--and he could scarcely feel. The telegram
broke in upon a_sort_of lethargy_which_had_held him ever since
Lucy's last_breath. He started at once._On the_way he spent two
hours at Manchester. On the_table_in his study_there still lay the
medical book he had taken down_from his scientific shelf on the
night_of Dr. Mildmay's_visit;_in_Lucy's room her dresses_hung as
she had left them on_the doors; a red woollen cap_she had been
knitting for Sandy was thrown_down half finished on the
dressing-table. Of_the hour he spent in_that room,_putting away
some of the little_personal possessions, still_warm as_it were from
her_touch, let no more be said.

When_he reached Paris_he inquired for Dora at the__pension__in
the Avenue Friedland,_to_which_he had_sent her. John,_who_had also
written_to_him, and was still in Paris,_was_staying, he knew, at an
hotel on the_Quai Voltaire. But he_went_to Dora first.

Dora, however,_was not at home. She_had left for him the full
address_of the_house in_the Paris _banlieue_ where she had
found Louie, and full directions as_to how to reach it. He_took one
of the open_cabs and_drove_thither in the_blazing_July sun.

An_interminable drive!--the whole length of the Avenue_de la
Grande-Armee_and the Avenue de Neuilly, past_the Seine and the_Rond
Pont_de Courbevoie, until at last turning_to the left into the wide
and_villainously paved road that leads_to_Rueil,_Bougival, and St.
Germain, the driver_and David between them with difficulty
discovered_a side street_which answered to the name Dora had
several_times_given.

They had reached one of the_most_squalid parts of the western
_banlieue_. Houses_half_built_and deserted in the middle,
perhaps_by some bankrupt builder; small traders,_bakers,
_charcutiers_, fried