The electrics were all on. Miss Mary--I
knew her by her height--was at the open window, wrestling with
Miss Elizabeth, who gripped her round the knees.
Miss Mary's hand was at her own throat, which was streaked with
blood.
"She's done it. She's done it too!" Miss Elizabeth panted. "Hold
her! Help me!"
"Oh, I say! Women don't cut their throats," Baxter whispered.
"My God! Has she cut her throat?" the maid cried out, and with no
warning rolled over in a faint. Baxter pushed her under the
wash-basins, and leaped to hold the gaunt woman who crowed and
whistled as she struggled toward the window. He took her by the
shoulder, and she struck out wildly:
"All right! She's only cut her hand," he said. "Wet towel quick!"
While I got that he pushed her backward. Her strength seemed
almost as great as his. I swabbed at her throat when I could, and
found no mark; then helped him to control her a little. Miss
Elizabeth leaped back to bed, wailing like a child.
"Tie up her hand somehow," said Baxter.
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