As they turned onto the sidewalk he cast a swift, involuntary glance, as of terror, in the direction of North River. She distinctly heard the quick intake of his breath and the involuntary chatter of his teeth.
"You will sleep in a good, clean bed to-night," she said, reading his thoughts.
He reached forth and touched her arm, timidly at first, as if he were afraid that ever so slight a sign of affection would be repulsed. Finding that she did not shrink or draw away, he ventured to draw her arm through his. His figure was still bent, but the slouching, furtive movement was gone. Mechanically she fell into his stride and they moved swiftly up the street. A clock in a house across the way banged out the hour. Far away, in the neighborhood of Broadway, a raucous-voiced newsboy was crying his "extra." They knew that he was shouting:
"All about the murder!" in that unintelligible jargon of the night.
"We will get it all in the morning papers," she said.
"I hope they don't try to connect me with it—Mary, I'm afraid of that! You'd better let me get out of town to-night."
She shook her head.
He walked with his eyes set straight ahead, trying to understand, trying to get control of his new emotions. Always there was the sharp, ugly little notion that she still despised him, that she was sacrificing herself that he might be drawn as far away as possible from the child she was so anxious to shield.
"I'm going to try my best to make you care for me again," he said, a vast hunger for sympathy and love taking possession of him.
"I hope you may, Tom," she said drearily.