You've done your best to, I can see that."
He got up out of his chair, heavily, tiredly; put on his raincoat and
stood, for a moment, crumpling his soft hat in his hands, looking down
at her. She hadn't risen. She'd gone limp all at once, and was leaning
over the table.
"Good-by," he said at last.
She said, "Good-by, Roddy," and watched him walking across the lobby and
out into the rain. He'd left his newspaper. She took it, gripped it in
both hands, just as he'd done, then, with an effort, got up and mounted
the stairs to her room. Dolly, fortunately, had gone out.
The violent struggle she had had to make during the last few moments in
her effort to retain her self-control, had pretty well exhausted her.
Only, had it been self-control, after all? That question shook her. Had
she meant to be merciless to him like that; to send him away utterly
discouraged in his sad humility, when the touch of an outreached hand
would have changed the whole face of the world for him? Had she really
been as noble as she felt while she was defending the impregnable
righteousness of her position and so completely demolishing his?
She remembered a day when he had been beaten in a law-suit, and she had
waited for him to come to her in his discouragement for help and
comfort.
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