Twice or three times she addressed him timidly by name, or made some
trivial remark. He did not answer, as though in very truth he had been
the shadow of a man lying there. And the injustice of this silence
seemed to her so terrible. Was she not his wife? Had she not borne him
five, and toiled to keep him from that girl? Was it her fault if she had
made his life a hell with her jealousy, as he had cried out that morning
before he went for her, and was "put away"? He was her "man." It had
been her right--nay, more, her duty!
And still he lay there silent. From the narrow street where no traffic
passed, the cries of a coster and distant whistlings mounted through the
unwholesome air. Some sparrows in the eave were chirruping incessantly.
The little sandy house-cat had stolen in, and, crouched against the
doorpost, was fastening her eyes on the plate which, held the remnants
of the fish. The seamstress bowed her forehead to the flowers on the
table; unable any longer to bear the mystery of this silence, she wept.
But the dark figure on the bed only pressed his arms closer round his
head, as though there were within him a living death passing the speech
of men.
The little sandy cat, creeping across the floor, fixed its claws in the
backbone of the fish, and drew it beneath the bed.
CHAPTER XXXIX
THE DUEL
Bianca did not see her husband after their return together from the
Round Pond.
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