It was a gray day in the spring of 1910. Husband of mine, I think we have rather overrated the emotional capacity of those—those dears. Instinctively she knew—some human recollection she had inherited—that she must not disturb him in this man-agony. If I could but——” To escape from her thoughts she began to undress, humming a light tune to herself, though her eyes were hot with unshed tears, and the sobs kept rising in her throat. He was not a sailor. Now, you and I can gossip at a gate, and Honi soit qui mal y pense. Only that I was prevented by one of those soldiers that caught me in the big house.
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