Contention
was the breath of her nostrils; the prime impulse of her heart was
suspicion. Little by little she came round to the wonted topic. Had
he been to see his friend the thief? Was she in prison again yet?
Whom had she been stealing from of late? Oh, she was innocence
itself, of course; too good for this evil-speaking world.
Tonight he could not bear it. He rose from his chair like a drunken
man, and staggered to the door. She sprang after him, but he was
just in time to escape her grasp and spring down the stairs; then,
out into the night. Once before, not quite a month ago, be had been
driven thus in terror from the sound of her voice, and had slept at
a coffeehouse. Now, as soon as he had got out of the street and saw
that he was not being pursued, he discovered that he had given away
his last copper for the omnibus fare. No matter; the air was
pleasant upon his throbbing temples. It was too late to think of
knocking at the house where Waymark lodged. Nothing remained but to
walk about the streets all night, resting on a stone when he became
too weary to go further, sheltering a little here or there when the
wind cut him too keenly. Rather this, oh, a thousand times rather,
than the hell behind him.
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