"Gideon Vetch."
As the girl broke away and ran out of the room that expressionless
repetition followed her into the hall and down the staircase, growing
fainter and fainter like the voice of one who is falling asleep:
"_Gideon Vetch. Gideon Vetch._"
On the porch, where the stout man had returned to his newspaper, Patty
found Gershom standing beside the perambulator, with the black-eyed baby
in his arms. He was gazing gravely over the round bald head, and his
face wore a funereal expression which contrasted ludicrously with the
clucking sounds he was making to the attentive and interested baby. When
Patty joined him he put the child back into the carriage, carefully
tucking the crocheted robe about the tiny shoulders. "I kind of thought
the little one might like a chance to get out of that buggy," he
observed, while he straightened himself briskly, and adjusted his tie.
"She must be very ill," said the girl, as they went out of the gate and
turned down the street.
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