"
He drew her up close to him and kissed her on one anger-flushed cheek,
and then, as he had done the night before, walked straight away to the
bedroom and closed the door behind him.
Hazel slept little that night. A horrid weight seemed to rest
suffocatingly upon her. More than once she had an impulse to creep in
there where Bill lay and forget it all in the sweep of that strong arm.
But she choked back the impulse angrily. She would not forgive him.
He had made her suffer. For his high-handedness she would make him
suffer in kind. At least, she would not crawl to him begging
forgiveness.
When sunrise laid a yellow beam, all full of dancing motes, across her
bed, she heard Bill stir, heard him moving about the apartment with
restless steps. After a time she also heard the unmistakable sound of
a trunk lid thrown back, and the movements of him as he gathered his
clothes--so she surmised. But she did not rise till the maid rapped on
her door with the eight-o'clock salutation:
"Breakfast, ma'am."
They made a pretense of eating. Hazel sought a chair in the
living-room. A book lay open in her lap. But the print ran into
blurred lines. She could not follow the sense of the words.
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