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He sat with folded arms and knitted brows, thinking intently. But then, because my papa had no money, you understand, he sent me to a convent. Where her husband saw only two youngsters in the mating mood, she felt that tragedy in some phase lurked in this room—if only in the loneliness of these two, without kith or kin apparently, thousands of miles from home. She wished he could smoke and dull his nerves a little. “You go home and think of all this,” he said, “and talk about it to-morrow. The terrors and anxieties of the last few months seemed to have fallen from her, to have passed away like an ugly dream, dismissed with a shudder even from the memory. A stack of chimneys, on the house above them, had yielded to the storm, and descended in a shower of bricks and stones. You never can go back.
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