"Give him to me," she commanded in a cracked whisper.
Roger stepped back, for between himself and Anne clutching for their child, the old Anne stood upon her tiptoes defying John Lowell.
"No, Rogie does not go." He turned and went silently back to the fire and sat down, Rogie clinging to his neck. For a moment Anne stood motionless in an anger that seemed to have frozen her to the bone. Then, with a sob that was a cry of hate, she opened the door and went quickly.
Until it was dark, Anne walked up one street and down another. She passed mean houses where families sat at dinner behind partly-drawn blinds, and stately homes, the intimacy of family life decorously concealed behind thick curtains. She did not know when the high fog parted and the stars came out, but when the sky was all a-glitter and a soft little wind ruffled the bay, she found herself sitting on a pile of lumber at the farthest jetty of Fisherman's Wharf. The lighted ferries lumbered cheerfully, the fishing boats grated softly on the piles. A few yards behind, in the new warehouse of Giuseppe Morelli, a group of fishermen laughed and chattered while they mended their nets against the turn of the tide.
Beyond the wharf, on the rocky crest of a hill, she could just glimpse the cottage light. She looked at it for a long time without emotion. She was cold and calm. Nothing could ever again stir her to anger or feeling of any kind.
The wind freshened. The men began climbing down into their boats. With much calling back and forth, the boats pushed off.
Anne left the wharf and went slowly up the steep, silent streets. At the foot of her own stairs she stopped and looked at her watch. It was five minutes after eleven.
The light in the cottage was out, the fire lay a handful of smoldering embers. The room was rather cold but she was not conscious of its chill although she stood for some time listening to the even breathing of Roger asleep in the next room. Then she crept into the bedroom, undressed and got noiselessly into bed. At its warmth, she shivered as if touched by something unclean. But in a few minutes she was asleep, worn by her long walk and the storm of anger and despair.
In the dawn, Roger woke, and, turning slightly, looked at Anne. She was sleeping as always, on her side, her cheek pillowed on one arm; small, exquisitely fair and utterly unmoving. Roger looked at her, almost with surprise that she should be there. And then aversion to Anne's body gripped him. He did not want to touch her or be near her. Never again of his own impulse would he wish to hold her in his arms or kiss her.