She spent hours by the window watching, waiting, gazing at
the moveless sod, listening to the wind-voices, companioned only by her
memories. She began to perceive that their emigration had been a bitter
mistake, but her husband had not yet acknowledged it, and she honestly
tried not to reproach him for it. Nevertheless, she had moments of
bitterness when she raged fiercely against him.
Little things gave her opportunity. He came home late one day. She
greeted him sullenly. He began to apologize:
"I didn't intend to stay to supper, but Mrs. Bradley--"
"Mrs. Bradley! Yes, you can go and have a good time with Mrs. Bradley,
and leave me here all alone to rot. It'd serve you right if I left you
to enjoy this fine home alone."
He trembled with agony and weakness.
"Oh, you don't mean that, Blanche--"
"For Heaven's sake, don't call me pet names. I'm not a child. If I'd had
any sense I'd never have come out here. There's nothing left for us but
just freeze or starve. What did we ever leave Illinois for, anyway?"
He sank back into a corner in gentle, sorrowful patience, waiting for
her anger to wear itself out.
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