He did not know—and probably never would unless she told him—that it was very easy (and comfortable for a woman) to fall into slatternly ways in this latitude. “And, after all, I am just one common person!” She watched the throb of the arteries in the stem of her neck, and put her hand at last gently and almost timidly to where her heart beat beneath her breast. “These are for you. ” She looked at him wistfully, but with some unwilling doubt in her wrinkled forehead. Soot was everywhere, for the lamp would not stay trimmed in the gale. “I wonder,” she said, “why one writes him sentences like that? It’ll have to go,” she decided, “I’ve written too many already. ” “It isn’t nice going to prison.
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