"Leave 'em take their rest," said Jabez. "They hain't got nothin' to go home for."
As they were driving home, Jerry suddenly broke the silence.
"Uncle Jabez hadn't oughter of stole that ewe. I'm sorry I et any."
"But you kep' on a-eatin' after you knowed she was stole."
"Well, God damn it all, Judy, I was hungry."
"So was we all. So was Jabez when he knocked her in the head."
Her voice had a dry and final sound.
Jerry could find no words with which to express the complexity of his feelings. So he kept silence. From time to time he glanced sidewise at his wife with a look of uneasiness and mistrust. She gave him never a look, but sat staring straight in front of her over the baby's head. His mind stirred uneasily with a baffled, futile feeling, very disquieting to his male vanity, that she did not think it worth her while to discuss the matter with him. An intangible film which, ever since the Georgetown Court Day had been spreading itself between them, seemed to grow momently denser and more permanent in quality.