Then Mrs. Bradford spoke again. "Why not leave that dusting, Ethel? You have been at it all day."
"Somebody must," said Miss Ethel, going on dusting.
"Well, I only wish I could do more," said Mrs. Bradford, comfortably turning her page with a rustling crackle. "But my legs have given way ever since I was married. I don't know why, I'm sure; but marriage does seem to affect the constitution in queer ways."
Miss Ethel felt—as she was intended to feel—that it was not within her power to comprehend the mysteries of the conjugal state; so acquiescing from long habit in her sister's torpidity, she went on with her dusting.
But her head ached appallingly, and she looked at the clock-hands nearing five with a feeling that she could bear the sounds of building so long and no longer. If they lasted a single minute beyond that time something inside her head would snap. Knock—knock—knock; scrape—scrape; the thud of something thrown down. She felt her breath coming fast as she waited for the moment when her aching senses would be lulled by the cessation of it all—when she would rest on a blissful silence.
"Thank God, it's five o'clock!" she said, flinging down her duster.
"Yes. The men will be leaving work now," said Mrs. Bradford.
Miss Ethel continued her work again, moving quietly about the room. Wave after wave of wet salt air was rolling in from the sea, pressing upon that which travelled slowly inland, so that the roke grew very dense, and the little house seemed to be cut off from all the world.
Miss Ethel sat down and leaned her head back with her eyes shut: Mrs. Bradford continued to read the paper, then rustled a page and looked at her sister over it. As she did so, Miss Ethel sat up with a jerk and stared across the room.
"Bless me!" said Mrs. Bradford, "what are you staring at me like that for, Ethel? Do I look ill?" And she began to wonder if she felt ill, for she always feared a stroke.