"Thank God!" said Mrs. Goldstone, weeping now tears that eased her breathing.
Suddenly he leaned toward her, his voice rather quieter, but his forefinger waggling out toward the open door.
"You go!" he said, and then in a gathering hurricane of fury, "go!"
"I.W., don't yell! Don't! Don't!"
"Go—while I'm quiet. Go—you hear?"
She edged around him where he stood, in fear of his white, crouched attitude.
"I.W.!"
He made a step toward her, and, at the sound in his throat, she ran out into the hallway and down the stairs to the porch. In the deep shade of the veranda's elbow a small figure lay deep in sleep in the wicker rocker, one bare arm up over her head and lips parted.
In a straight chair beside her Mrs. Goldstone sat down. She was shuddering with chill and repeating to herself, quite aloud and over and over again:
"What have I done? What have I done? What have I done?"