"
"It is almost time to hear from Will." Marjorie had no taste for
reminiscences.
"I expect to hear every day."
"So do we. Mrs. Kemlo watches up the street and down the street for the
postman."
"Oh, yes. Morris. I forgot. Does he like the life?"
"He is enthusiastic."
She turned a leaf, and read a page of extracts from Donald Grant
Mitchell; but she had not understood one word, so she began again and
read slowly, trying to understand; then she found her ticket in her
glove, and examined it with profound interest, the color burning in her
cheeks; then she gazed long out of the window at the snow and the bare
trees and the scattered farmhouses; then she turned to study the lady's
bonnet in front of her, and to pity the mother with the child in front of
_her_; she looked before and behind and out the windows; she looked
everywhere but at the face beside her; she saw his overcoat, his black
travelling bag, and wondered what he had brought his mother; she looked
at his brown kid gloves, at his black rubber watch chain, from which a
gold anchor was dangling; but it was dangerous to raise her eyes higher,
so they sought his boots and the newspaper on his knee. Had he spoken
last, or had she? What was the last remark? About Morris? It was
certainly not about Donald Grant Mitchell. Yes, she had spoken last; she
had said Morris was--
Would he speak of her long unanswered letter? Would he make an excuse for
not noticing it? A sentence in rhetoric was before her eyes: "Any letter,
not insulting, merits a reply.
Pages:
303
304
305
306
307
308
309
310
311
312
313
314
315
316
317
318
319
320
321
322
323
324
325
326
327