I
have no right to it. I cannot in justice charge so large a fee."
"Take it--take it," he answered impatiently; "your fee will amount
to that before I am well. Besides," he added mysteriously, "I wish
to secure your friendship. I wish that you should protect me from
her," and he pointed his poor, bandaged hand at Marion.
My eyes followed his gesture, and I caught the glance that replied--
a glance of horror, distrust, despair. The beautiful face was
distorted into positive ugliness.
"It's all true," I thought; "she is the demon that her father
represents her."
I now rose to go. This domestic tragedy sickened me. This
treachery of blood against blood was too horrible to witness. I
wrote a prescription for the old man, left directions as to the
renewal of the dressings upon his burns, and, bidding him good
night, hastened toward the door.
While I was fumbling on the dark, crazy landing for the staircase,
I felt a hand laid on my arm.
"Doctor," whispered a voice that I recognized as Marion
Blakelock's, "Doctor, have you any compassion in your heart?"
"I hope so," I answered shortly, shaking off her hand; her touch
filled me with loathing.
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