“Huh?” cried the dentist, sitting up in bed, raising his clinched fists. “Huh? What? What? What is it? What is it?”
“Oh, Mac,” gasped his wife, “I had such an awful dream. I dreamed about Maria. I thought she was chasing me, and I couldn't run, and her throat was—Oh, she was all covered with blood. Oh-h, I am so frightened!”
Trina had borne up very well for the first day or so after the affair, and had given her testimony to the coroner with far greater calmness than Heise. It was only a week later that the horror of the thing came upon her again. She was so nervous that she hardly dared to be alone in the daytime, and almost every night woke with a cry of terror, trembling with the recollection of some dreadful nightmare. The dentist was irritated beyond all expression by her nervousness, and especially was he exasperated when her cries woke him suddenly in the middle of the night. He would sit up in bed, rolling his eyes wildly, throwing out his huge fists—at what, he did not know—exclaiming, “What what—” bewildered and hopelessly confused. Then when he realized that it was only Trina, his anger kindled abruptly.
“Oh, you and your dreams! You go to sleep, or I'll give you a dressing down.” Sometimes he would hit her a great thwack with his open palm, or catch her hand and bite the tips of her fingers. Trina would lie awake for hours afterward, crying softly to herself. Then, by and by, “Mac,” she would say timidly.
“Huh?”
“Mac, do you love me?”
“Huh? What? Go to sleep.”
“Don't you love me any more, Mac?”
“Oh, go to sleep. Don't bother me.”
“Well, do you LOVE me, Mac?”