"O God!" she said. "I thought it was about ten."
The clock ticked in roundly again except when he rustled his paper in the turning. The fire was crackling now, too, in sharp explosions. Beyond the arc of lamp the room was deeper than ever in shadow. Finally John Burkhardt's head relaxed again to his shirt-front, the paper falling gently away to the floor. She regarded his lips puffing out as he breathed. Hands clasped, arms full length on the table, it was as if the flood of words pressing against the walls of her, to be shrieked rather than spoken, was flowing over to him. He jerked erect again, regarding her through blinks.
"Must 'a' dozed off," he said, reaching down for his newspaper.
She was winding her fingers now in and out among themselves.
"Burkhardt?"
"Eh?"
"What—does a person do that's smotherin'?"
"Eh?"
"I know. That's what I'm doing. Smotherin'!"
"A touch of the old trouble, Hanna?"