“Bring them down,” he said.
“I won’t,” she wept, with rage. “You’re not going to bully me and hit me like that on the mouth.”
And she sobbed again. He looked at her in contempt and compassion and in rising anger.
“Where are they?” he said.
“They’re in the little drawer under the looking-glass,” she sobbed.
He went slowly upstairs, struck a match, and found the trinkets. He brought them downstairs in his hand.
“These?” he said, looking at them as they lay in his palm.
She looked at them without answering. She was not interested in them any more.
He looked at the little jewels. They were pretty.
“It’s none of their fault,” he said to himself.