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To be sure, he was attentive, respectful; but in his conduct there was none of that shameless camaraderie of a man who loved his woman and didn't care a hang if all the world knew it. Her husband sat in a chair beside her bed, his head in his hands. As he returned to the table, he put his finger to his nose; and, though he said nothing, he thought he had a much better chance of winning his wager. And so bitterly did the carpenter reproach himself with his neglect, that he resolved, at all risks, to go back in search of it. "What did you do?" he asked, in a broken voice. He sent me home. He looked at Annabel, whose face was buried in her hands— he looked back at Anna, who was regarding him with an easy composure which secretly irritated him. But all of that was forgotten. Last time I left home I felt as hard as nails.
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