She drew her veil down over her face very closely, and walked quickly
through the familiar streets, until she arrived at the place indicated in
his letter. It was a small, mean tenement, in a by street, in which there
were but one or two other houses. The shutters were closed from the upper
story to the lowest, and the whole place wore an uninhabited appearance.
After knocking several times, she was about to give up in despair, when she
discovered through the glass above the door the faint glimmer of a light,
and shortly after a female voice demanded from the inside, "Who is there?"
"Does Mr. McCloskey live here?" asked Lizzie.
Hearing a voice not more formidable than her own, the person within
partially opened the door; and, whilst shading with one hand the candle she
held in the other, gazed out upon the speaker.
"Does Mr. McCloskey live here?" repeated Lizzie.
"Yes, he does," answered the woman, in a weak voice; "but he's got the
typers."
"Has the what?" inquired Lizzie, who did not exactly understand her.
"Got the typers--got the fever, you know."
"The typhus fever!" said Lizzie, with a start; "then he is really sick."
"Really sick!" repeated the woman--"really sick! Well, I should think he
was! Why, he's been a raving and swearing awful for days; he stormed and
screamed so loud that the neighbours complained.
Pages:
488
489
490
491
492
493
494
495
496
497
498
499
500
501
502
503
504
505
506
507
508
509
510
511
512