He opened the face of his watch and felt the hands, a habit he had
formed of telling the time in the dark. It was one o'clock.
He thought of his wife and their quarrel. He had forgotten it in
larger thoughts, and his heart suddenly went out in pity to her.
He had not meant what he said. He loved her in spite of all harsh
words and bitter scenes. She was the mother of his two lovely
children, a girl of ten and a boy of four. The idea of a night
apart from her, he, and theirs came with a painful shock. He felt
his strength and was ashamed that he had left her so cruelly. He
hurried to the Twenty-third Street elevated station and boarded a
car for his home.
When his wife recovered from the first horror of his leaving, she
was angry. With a nervous laugh she went into the nursery, kissed
the sleeping chil-dren and went to bed. She tossed the first hour,
thinking of the quarrel and many sharp thrusts she might have
given him. Perhaps she would renew the attack when he came in and
attempted to make up. The clock struck eleven and she sprang up,
walked to her window and looked out.
A great new fear began to brood over her soul.
"No, no, he could not have meant it--he is not a brute!" she cried,
as she began to nervously clasp her hands and turn her wedding ring
over and over again on her tapering finger, until it seemed a band
of fire to her fevered nerves.
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