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If only sometimes he would grow angry at her, impatient! But his tender courtesy was unfailing; and under this would be the abiding bitterness of having mistaken gratitude for love. Shy, grateful in her loneliness for this unexpected attention, she had listened. On this side was a razor with which a son had murdered his father; the blade notched, the haft crusted with blood: on that, a bar of iron, bent, and partly broken, with which a husband had beaten out his wife's brains. I’ve seen him, and he doesn’t a bit understand. . ’ ‘I beg your pardon?’ said Miss Froxfield frostily. “She must go her own way.
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