And while her son was reconveyed to prison the body of the unfortunate Mrs. Vorsack would just have to live with it. “Oh, dammit!” he remarked, “dammit!” with great bitterness as he faced it. She could neither speak nor move nor cry out. She fell with a plop onto her rear end in the mud and sat dumbly like a statue, water eddying around her. Only she hadn’t. If only sometimes he would grow angry at her, impatient! But his tender courtesy was unfailing; and under this would be the abiding bitterness of having mistaken gratitude for love. The hour for which, presumably, she had been created was drawing nigh. She stared down at them from a high window, peering down at their moonlit faces in the bed heavy with furs, the same bed where she had given birth to Gianfrancesco’s dead son. Your career at the bar had given you a command of language, also a self-control not vouchsafed to us ordinary mortals. No blowzy barmaids for him to-day: an American bar-keep to whom he could tell his troubles and receive the proper meed of sympathy.
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