In the daylight she
had been able to think of herself, but in the darkness she could think
only of her husband. She was haunted by the expression of his face, by
the tone of his voice, when he had asked her if she supposed that
existence was any longer valuable to him, and the sudden instinctive
apprehension that she had felt then now grew so strong that she fought
against it vainly.
He intended to commit suicide. At first she had thought of all those
London bridges, with the dark rivers swirling through their arches and
eddying round their piers; then she became sure that he would not
drown himself. He was a vigorous swimmer--such a death would be
impossible to him. No, he would poison himself, or shoot himself, or
hang himself. Perhaps even now it was all over.
In his presence it had seemed impossible to disobey him. Whatever he
commanded she must do. But what pitiful weakness! Why, with instinct
prompting her, had she not resisted him, refused to let him leave
her, stayed with him in spite of blows, and been there to snatch the
cup or the rope from his hands, to thrust herself between the pistol
and his body?
By day she recognized that her anxiety was unreasoning, based on her
own emotions, or at least not logically derived from her knowledge of
his character.
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