Maggie and Martin stood there
looking out into the mist. The woman could see Maggie's face, dim
though the light was, and a certain haunting desire in it tugged at
Mrs. Bolitho's tender heart. "Poor worm," she thought to herself,
"she's longing for him to say something to her and he won't." They
were talking. Then there was a pause and Martin turned away.
Maggie's eyes passionately besought him. What did she want him to
do--to say? Mrs. Bolitho could see that the girl's hands were
clenched, as though she had reached, at last, the very limits of her
endurance. He did not see. His back was half turned to her. He did
not speak, but stood there drumming with his hands on the glass.
"Oh, I could shake him," thought Mrs. Bolitho's impatience. For a
time Maggie waited, never stirring, her eyes fixed, her body taut.
Then she seemed suddenly to break, as though the moment of endurance
was past. She turned sharply round, looking directly out of her
window into Mrs. Bolitho's room--but she didn't see Mrs. Bolitho.
That good woman saw her smile, a strange little smile of defiance,
pathos, loneliness, cheeriness defeated.
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