J. B. Powell

“ But although she did become his wife she was simply another woman in his life. That she had loved him mattered not. It was the same old hackneyed story of the man grown tired of the woman and the woman dying a little from each rebuke—dying that slow, creeping death which only a woman who loves knows. ”

“ With the realization of death came intense misery. Hargrove had never felt its equal in life. It was not physical discomfort, nor was it quite mental agony. It was worse than either of them, but not so tangible. Comparing the feeling to life, it was, he thought, as if he had murdered everyone in the world and was consequently forced to live alone. Alone, he thought, with a strict, puritan conscience for company. He felt utterly abandoned, and he was all misery. In life he might have thrown off even so intense a suffering by drink or by any form of material pleasure. ”

“ And then back into the drawing room again to pace the deep carpet by his coffin until Anne came. He felt satisfied that she would come. Death has strange drawing powers. It draws forgotten wives back to forgetting husbands. ”

“ The doors swung silently shut behind the servant. The woman who remained gazed quietly down upon her husband. Only one candle now remained lighted. It cast a pale yellow light into the face of the dead man. ”

“ He lived again his lurid years with his wife. He saw her, young, attractive, an orphan depending on the world of men for her livelihood. She had been his secretary, and he had wanted her. And because she was honest he had married her. ”

“ Died in bed. Heart trouble takes 'em that way. Liquor, the doctors said. Guess he drank purty much after you went, ma'am."
Neither spoke for some minutes. The figure in the coffin fascinated them. Their eyes remained fixed upon the massive face, a face which might have been molded out of soft putty. The small eyes were closed, but the heavy jowl drew them downward and revealed slits of pale blue. ”