"Mother," she said, hesitating, and then speaking timidly, "is father all
right?"
"All right, dear?"
"Yes. He doesn't look well. His forehead is all flushed, and I overheard
some one at the Sampsons' say the other day that he wasn't well really,
that he must take great care of himself. Ought he to?"
"Ought he what?"
"To take great care of himself."
"What nonsense!" Mrs. Brandon turned back to her book impatiently. "There
never was any one so strong and healthy."
"He's always worrying about something. It's his nature."
"Yes, I suppose so."
Joan vanished. Mrs. Brandon sat, staring before her, her mind running with
the clock--tick-tick-tick-tick--and then suddenly jumping at the mellow
liquid gurgle that it sometimes gave. Would her husband come in and say
good-night?
How she had grown, during these last weeks, to loathe his kiss! He would
stand behind her chair, bending his great body over her, his red face
would come down, then the whiff of tobacco, then the rough pressure on her
cheek, the hard, unmeaning contact of his lips and hers. His beautiful
eyes would stare beyond her, absently into the room.
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