"You understand how it was? I was unable to help it," he said, his voice stumbling a little as he spoke. She lifted her head.
"Yes," she said, "I understand."
He looked at her in silence, then picking up a paper, unfolded it and began to read. She shivered a little, and leant nearer to the fire. Her thoughts wandered vaguely. She knew that he had lied to her, but she did not care. The stealthy sorrow of her married life, after stalking her spirit for a couple of years, had sprung upon her in the space of time which it took her to read his letter. Instinct guided her to the truth, and there it left her. The rest was a tangle, and, for the moment, she cared only for the physical comfort of apathy and quiescence.
She stretched out her cold hands to the blaze, while her husband watched her furtively from behind his newspaper.
The deep tones of the village clock, striking the half-hour, broke upon the silence; and a moment later the timepiece on the mantel shelf chimed an echoing response.
