"In God's name, Aunt Fanny," he said, "quit
spreading out your handkerchief and drying it and then getting it all
wet again! I mean stop crying! Do! And for heaven's sake, get up.
Don't sit there with your back against the boiler and--"
"It's not hot," Fanny sniffled. "It's cold; the; plumbers
disconnected it. I wouldn't mind if they hadn't. I wouldn't mind if
it burned me, George."
"Oh, my Lord!" He went to her, and lifted her. "For God's sake, get
up! Come, let's take the coffee into the other room, and see what's
to be done."
He got her to her feet; she leaned upon him, already somewhat
comforted, and, with his arm about her, he conducted her to the dining
room and seated her in one of the two kitchen chairs which had been
placed at the rough table. "There!" he said, "get over it!" Then he
brought the coffee-pot, some lumps of sugar in a tin pan, and, finding
that all the coffee-cups were broken, set water glasses upon the
table, and poured some of the pale coffee into them. By this time
Fanny's spirits had revived appreciably: she looked up with a
plaintive eagerness.
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