And there was an hour on Sunday evening when he was too tired for
anything else.
It meant a ceaseless, active negation: a "No" to the simple wish to buy
her a bunch of flowers, "No" to the longing to walk a little farther
with her in the quiet dusk, "No" to the very thought of her.
2
As usual, on the way home, they discussed their best "cases." There
was No. 10 in A Ward, a raddled woman of the streets who had been
brought in the night before as the result of a _crime passionnel_, and
whose injuries had been the subject of long deliberations. Even before
they had reached the hospital archway Robert and Francey agreed that
Rogers' air of mystery was simply a professional disguise for complete
bafflement.
"It's the sort of case I'd like to have," Robert said. "Something you
can get your teeth into and worry. I believe if I were on my
own--given a free hand--I'd work it out--pull her through. Rogers may
too. But just now he's marking time. And there's nothing to hope from
time in a job like that. No constitution. Rotten all through. Still,
it would be a feather in one's cap."
He brooded fiercely, intently, like a hound on a hot scent. People
turned to look at the big, shabby young man with the sunken, burning
eyes that stared through them as though they had been so many shadows.
He did not, in fact, see them at all. He made his way by sheer
instinct across the crowded street.
"She's terribly afraid of death," Francey said.
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