God keep her on her solitary way! England! England! England! Less than a
week and I should be there!
That was early hours on Saturday morning--the very Saturday when my poor
little woman, after she had been turned away by those prating
philanthropists, was being sheltered by the prostitute.
Let him explain it who can. I cannot.
M.C.
[END OF MARTIN CONRAD'S MEMORANDUM]
ONE HUNDRED AND THIRD CHAPTER
I must have been sitting a full hour or more on the end of my
bed--stunned, stupefied, unable to think--when Miriam, back from the
synagogue, came stealthily upstairs to say that a messenger had come for
me about six o'clock the night before.
"He said his name was Oliver, and father saw him, and that's how he came
to know. 'Tell her that her child is ill, and she is to come
immediately,' he said."
I was hardly conscious of what happened next--hardly aware of passing
through the streets to Ilford. I had a sense of houses flying by as they
seem to do from an express train; of my knees trembling; of my throat
tightening; and of my whole soul crying out to God to save the life of
my child until I could get to her.
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