Together they made their way to the divan, and sank down upon it side by side, holding to each other, trembling and fearful, like children in the night.
"Honey," whispered Jadwin, after a while. "Honey, it's dark, it's dark. Something happened.... I don't remember," he put his hand uncertainly to his head, "I can't remember very well; but it's dark—a little."
"It's dark," she repeated, in a low whisper. "It's dark, dark. Something happened. Yes. I must not remember."
They spoke no further. A long time passed. Pressed close together, Curtis Jadwin and his wife sat there in the vast, gorgeous room, silent and trembling, ridden with unnamed fears, groping in the darkness.
And while they remained thus, holding close by one another, a prolonged and wailing cry rose suddenly from the street, and passed on through the city under the stars and the wide canopy of the darkness.
"Extra, oh-h-h, extra! All about the Smash of the Great Wheat Corner! All about the Failure of Curtis Jadwin!"
CONCLUSION
The evening had closed in wet and misty. All day long a chill wind had blown across the city from off the lake, and by eight o'clock, when Laura and Jadwin came down to the dismantled library, a heavy rain was falling.
Laura gave Jadwin her arm as they made their way across the room—their footsteps echoing strangely from the uncarpeted boards.