The central cord of it all, that everything else depended from, was, she
knew, the reflection that this triumphant narrative he was listening to
now, had been waiting on her lips to be told to him that night in the
room on Clark Street, and that the smoking smoldering fires of his
outraged pride and masculine sense of possession, had made the telling
impossible--had made everything impossible but that dull outcry of hers
that it had ended--like this.
But he never winced. Indeed, now and then when she tried to run ahead in
a way to elide this incident or that, he asked questions that brought
out all the details, and at the end he said with undisguised gravity,
but quite steadily:
"So after the play opened you were just waiting for Galbraith to send
for you. Why--why did you go on the road, instead of to New York?"
"He hadn't sent for me yet, and I'd made up my mind, by that time, that
he meant not to. And I was too tired just then to come down here and try
for anything else. I went on the road for a sort of rest-cure.
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