The Clique of Gold by Émile Gaboriau
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page 9 of 698 (01%)
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The women sobbed aloud.
"To die so young!" they said over and over again, "and to die thus." In the meantime the merchant had gone up to the bed, and examined the poor girl. "She is not dead yet!" he cried. "No, she cannot be dead! Come, ladies, come here and help the poor child, till the doctor comes." And then, with strange self-possession, he told them what to do for the purpose of recalling her to life. "Give her air," he said, "plenty of air; try to get some air into her lungs. Cut open her dress; pour some vinegar on her face; rub her with some woollen stuff." He issued his orders, and they obeyed him readily, although they had no hope of success. "Poor child!" said one of the women. "No doubt she was crossed in love." "Or she was starving," whispered another. There was no doubt that poverty, extreme poverty, had ruled in that miserable chamber: the traces were easily seen all around. The whole furniture consisted of a bed, a chest of drawers, and two chairs. There were no curtains at the window, no dresses in the trunk, not a ribbon in the drawers. Evidently everything that could be sold had been sold, piece by piece, little by little. The mattresses had followed the |
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