But then it came on her, with a sudden fierce
light of conviction, that all this was hollow, useless, vain, that the
sentence was written and the doom pronounced. No pleading however
eloquent could alter it. Quisante was stopped in mid-career by a short
sharp sob that escaped from his wife's lips. He turned and looked at her,
breaking off the sentence that he had begun. She met his glance with a
frightened look in her eyes.
"What's the matter?" he asked slowly, rather resentfully.
"Nothing, nothing," she stammered. "I--I was excited by what you were
saying." She tried to laugh. "I'm emotional, you know, and you can always
rouse my emotions."
"Was it that?" For a moment longer he sat upright, looking hard at her;
then his body relaxed, and he lay back, his lower lip dropping and his
eyes half closed. An expression of great weariness and despair came over
him. He had read the meaning of her sob; and now he hid his face in his
hands. His pretences failed him, and he was assailed by the bitterness of
truth and of death.
She rose, saying, "It's late, we must go in; you'll be over-tired.
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