" From a drawer in her writing-desk she produced a tin box of
cigarettes. "They're your kind--unless you've changed," she commented,
and went over to the mantel shelf for an ash-tray and a match-safe. The
match-safe was empty and she left the room to get a fresh supply from
her kitchenette.
On the inner face of her front door was a big mirror, and in it, as she
came back through the unlighted passage, she saw her husband. He was
sitting just as she'd left him, and as his face was partly turned away
from her, it could not have been from the expression of it that she got
her revelation. But she stopped there in the dark and caught her breath
and leaned back against the wall and squeezed the tears out of her eyes.
Perhaps it was just because he was sitting so still, a thing it was
utterly unlike him to do. The Rodney of her memories was always ranging
about the rooms that confined him. Or the grip of the one hand she could
see upon the chair-arm it rested on may have had something to do with
it.
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