moment or two, she would linger under the gas
jet, her face still smiling, for a last look. A last good-night. Then
darkness.

Darkness settling over her spirit, together with loneliness and fatigue.
She would go into Betsy's room and throw herself dressed on her daughter's
bed, and a dull complete indifference to everything under the moon and the
stars would creep from her body up into her mind. At times she would try to
fight it off. To-night at dinner she must not be what she knew she had been
the night before, a wet blanket upon all the talk. But if they only knew
how hard it was--what a perfect--hell it was! Her breath coming faster, she
would dig her nails into the palms of her hands. One night she noticed and
looked at her hand, and saw the skin was actually cut and a little blood
was appearing. She had read of women doing this, but she had never done it
before--not even when her babies were born. She had gripped Bruce's hand
instead.

CHAPTER XXVII

Roger found her like that one evening. He heard what he thought was a sob
from the room, for she had forgotten to close the door. He came into the
doorway but drew back, and closed the door with barely a sound. Frowning
and irresolute, he stood for a moment in the hall, then turned and went
into his room. Soon he heard Deborah enter the house and come slowly up the
stairs. She too had had a hard day, he recalled, a day all filled with
turbulence, with problems and with vexing toil, in her enormous family. And
he felt he could not blame her for not being of more help at home. Still,
he had been disappointed of late in her manner toward her sister. He had
hoped she would draw closer to Edith, now that again they were living
together in their old home where they had been born. But no, it had worked
just the opposite way. They were getting upon each other's nerves. Why
couldn't she make overtures, small kindly proffers of help and advice and
sympathy, the womanly things?

From his room he heard her knock softly at the same door he had closed. And
he heard her low clear voice:

"Are you there, Edith dear?" He listened a moment intently, but he could
not hear the reply. Then Deborah said, "Oh, you poor thing. I'm awfully
sorry. Edith--don't bother to come downstairs--let me bring you up your
supper." A pause. "I wish you would. I'd love to."

He heard Deborah come by his door and go up the second flight of stairs to
the room she had taken on the third floor.