Their flitting hands were always touching. "This she-devil has got hold of the sack. Her husband was drinking in the tavern with the other guests. On the one hand, she seemed to think plainly and simply, and would talk serenely and freely about topics that most women have been trained either to avoid or conceal; and on the other she was unconscious, or else she had an air of being unconscious—that was the riddle—to all sorts of personal applications that almost any girl or woman, one might have thought, would have made. "Fool!" he cried, "do you think I wouldn't have secured you before this if I hadn't some motive for my forbearance?" "And that motive is fear," replied Jack contemptuously. It had been part of her wedding trousseau, a gift from her family to his. He had not been successful as the world counted success; the fat bank-account, the filled waiting room of which he had once dreamed, had never materialized except in the smoke of his evening pipe.
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