The rising
storm seemed the approach of the remorseless judgment-day, the howl of
the wind, the voice of devils, exulting in her fall.
She did not trouble herself about her husband. At times she flamed out
in anger against his weakness, his business failures, his boyish
gullibility. Sometimes she pitied him, sometimes she hated him.
She watched Bailey furtively. The firm lines of his face, his sturdy
figure, and his frank, brusque manner were as familiar to her as the
face of Rivers, and almost as dear--but she could not speak!
At last she gave up all thought of speaking, and drew her shawl about
her with an air of final reserve. She resembled an old crone as she
crouched there.
Rivers returned soon and took off his overcoat without looking at
Bailey, who bustled about getting the supper, his resolute cheerfulness
once more aglow.
Rivers sat down beside Blanche. "It would be death to attempt Wheatland
to-night," he said. "I could make it all right, but it would be the end
of you."
Bailey could not hear the words she spoke in reply.
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