"A vow," she answered,—"a vow to my dead husband. Somehow her walk home with him had been transmogrified into a melodramatic rejection, a slamming. He's as generous as he's frolicsome. She went into shock. The whole place had come to life, the magic seeped out of the walls. The highest form of knowledge was magic: the priesthood. She had fallen asleep on the wooden bed, uncaring of lice or bedbugs. "I knew how it would be," she cried, in the shrill voice peculiar to a shrew, "when you brought that worthless hussy's worthless brat into the house. To have spoken lightly on such a subject a few hours ago would have seemed incredible. ” She peered at him through the semi-blackness.
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