Crazy Radio eBooks

It was in the dressing-room one night, after one of these rehearsals,
that she caught a different view of the situation. She sat down on a
bench to unlace her shoes and looked straight into Olga Larson's face--a
face sunken with a despair that turned Rose cold all over. The tearless
tragic eyes were staring, without recognition, straight into Rose's own.
It must be with faces like this that people mounted the rails on the
high bridge in Lincoln Park, intent on leaving a world that had become
intolerable. Packed in all around her in the inadequate dressing-room,
the other girls were chattering, squealing, scrambling into their
clothes, as unaware of her tense motionless figure, as if it had been a
mere inanimate lump. She couldn't have been more alone if she had been
sitting out on the rock of Juan Fernandez.
Rose invented various pretexts to delay her own dressing until the other
girls were gone. She could no more have abandoned that hopeless creature
there, than she could have left a person drowning.


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