Clara outwatched him. She lay in the extraordinary stillness to which she had trained herself, with patiently closed eyes and an untroubled brow, but there was the pain of controlled weeping in her throat. She had taught herself to keep her mind clear of regrets, of anger and scorn, that there might always be room for the flooding brightness of her love, but she had not yet learnt to keep back that hard, constricting hurt that stretched across her throat from ear to ear, and made a raw place in her breast.
At her side Rutherford turned, tossed, and ejaculated between his snatches of sleep.
"Oh, damn the drink! Clara."
"Yes?"
"Did I wake you?"
"No." She smiled at the ceiling.
"I can't sleep."
"You've been to sleep, Jim."
"I tell you I haven't. Clara, are you angry with me? Look here, I hadn't been there for a month, you know I hadn't."
"Yes, I know."