Then I patted into shape the hair that
The Author had pulled awry, and said in the cold, accusing,
I-die-a-martyr-to-your-stupidity voice that women punish men with:
"I think I shall go home."
With a chastened, hang-dog air The Author rose to accompany me,
casting a withering look upon Mr. Nicholas Jelnik, who despised The
Author for a bungling and intrusive idiot, and let his glance convey
the fact. He was sorry for me, with a compassionate understanding of
what I had been through. But I wanted neither his sorrow nor his
compassion. He had punished The Author, but he hadn't saved _me_
from a ridiculous and painful situation. I gave him a limp hand, and
had the satisfaction of leaving him thoroughly uncomfortable.
When we reached our gate The Author, who had trudged beside me in
gloomy silence, laid his hand upon my arm.
"I shall not ask you to answer me at once. But I do ask you to
consider carefully what I have said, and to realize that I mean
every word of it. And--and--I'm sorry it came about in this wise,
Sophy," he finished, with a touch of compunction.
"So am I." And then I went up-stairs, and crept into bed. My head
ached frightfully, my heart throbbed and fluttered.
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