Her mind twisted over other matters at the same time. Marriage meant so little to a man, compared to what it meant to a woman! Pelham, she believed, was chaste; he had told her so. There was no way of knowing. But love accomplished changed woman irrevocably. It seemed unfair. She re-breathed a silent prayer that she would not find him coarse ... even a little. It had been disillusioned Dorothy who had warned her that all men were.... Not her man.
Twice the porter had opened the door with suggestive obtrusiveness; it must be nearly eleven. Shivering with a disquiet almost unbearable, she responded to the caressing modulations in his voice, as he told of his childhood; even though its warmth was caused by recollections of other arms than her own. His deep affection for his mother, despite the occasional flippancy he used now, was no secret to the wife.
The whistle wailed rhythmically across the level stubble fields.
His face lit up. "That was Newtown we whizzed by; my father started it. Hideous place!" But the tone was affectionate.
| Jackson | | | 11.02| |
He consulted his watch; they were running four minutes behind.
As the train picked up speed, his eyes bored the obscurity. "That dark place ... somewhere there is the road to Uncle Jimmy Barbour's farm. You'll see it all with me soon, dearest dear."
She looked ahead toward the darkness he indicated. Now they had plunged past it.
She heard the porter approach for the third time. Pelham's tone was a trifle uneven. "The stateroom's made up? Thanks very much. Will you call us in time for Pascagoula?"
Us!... Jane's heart thumped; she wondered if his ears could fail to hear it.