Jerry saw the sinister setting of her mouth, and his own face darkened into a black scowl.
Annie had fallen asleep, and she slipped off the child's shoes and outer clothing and carried her into the other room. When she came back the kitchen was almost dark. Jerry still sat by the stove, his head sunk on his breast.
"Air you a-goin' to do the milkin' to-night?" she asked in a dry, dead voice.
"No, I hain't."
She threw on an old cap and jacket, took up the milk bucket with an emphatic rattle and bang and went out, slamming the door so that the house shook.
When she came in again the room was so dark that she could hardly see the outlines of things. The boys had dropped asleep on the old sofa behind the stove. The fire had gone low and the room was chilly. Jerry still sat by the stove, his head sunk lower on his breast.
She lit the lamp, strained the milk and mixed the corn cake batter, then came by the stove to make up the fire. He bulked obstinately between her and the woodbox. For a minute tense with their mutual aversion she stood waiting for him to move.
"Air you a-goin' to move or hain't you?" she asked at last in the same dry, dead voice.
He glanced up at her with a hateful leer, then dropped his head again to his breast.
"I hain't."