"I wonder if I should squash you like a slimy beetle," she mused.
That was too much for Blackie. He struggled to get free. It was a hard task to wiggle out from under the ponderous weight that crushed down from behind that foot. He whimpered and whined and pleaded for mercy.
Timothy stood in the doorway. His eyes were popping but he was still dignified. He had thought it best to bring Blackie's hat and coat. He had come to the conclusion that Blackie would be leaving shortly.
"Now get the hell out," ordered Mary Blaine. "I'm thankful indeed that I am still able to forget that I'm a lady when the necessity arises."
As she spoke she walked majestically up the groaning stairs, a mountain of a woman who had suddenly fallen into the valley of despair.
Blackie seized his hat and departed as though intent on entering a marathon. His brain, however, was still active and despite the pain of his sundry bruises he was plotting his revenge.
Timothy stood mournfully surveying the retreating figure of Madame Leota whom he knew as Mary Blaine.
"A harmless maniac," he reflected, "is bad enough. Whatever we shall do with her now that she has become violent, only the Creator knows."
Mary Blaine went back in her room and slouched into a chair. She sat all hunched up, like a balloon that has been pricked with a pin and is slowly getting smaller. This was a catastrophe indeed. A calamity was clamoring at her doorstep. She never should have come to New York. Now that it was too late to retreat gracefully, she knew that she loved Dorothy as much as though the girl had been her own daughter. How was it to end? In disgrace? She was bringing disgrace down on Dorothy's head. She must find a way out. She must go back to the Midwest to spend her declining years, a broken-down Madame with nothing but bleak memories to console her.
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