Her Faithful Knight — page 44: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

CHAPTER V. A STORY OF LONDON. “Dorothy !” “Phyllis !” The sisters were seated together on the sofa, clasped in each other’s arms, the younger shaken by a convulsive outburst of weeping, the elder striving to soothe her and to keep back her own tears. It was eight months since they had parted; yet in that comparatively short space of time a terrible change for the worse had taken place in Phyllis Knight’s appearance. So greatly, indeed, had she altered that the likeness be- tween the sisters, normally so great as to be bewildering, seemed almost lost in the contrast between the clear, pink pallor of the young artist and the ashen-gray of her sis- ter’s face. In spite of the warmth of the summer night, Phyllis’ hands were cold; Dorothy slipped on her knees before her, and tried to warm them with her lips. “My poor child! My poor darling! You have been ill, terribly ill, I can see; and you did not tell me! How could you keep it from me?” “Tt isn’t that, Dorothy,” her sister whispered. “It is my heart’”—she pressed her thin hands against her breast as she spoke—“my heart is broken.” Her gray eyes were distended with despair. Incessant weeping had destroyed all control of her features, and her mouth quivered pitifully even while she was not speaking. “Oh, Dolly! Dolly!” she moaned, stretching out her arms, not round her sister, but in the empty air above her. “What shall I do? What shall I dor’ (COPMIE OOO KS 4E)