“Sweet, huh?” Tom echoed, taking back the picture, nursing it in both cupped hands, and studying it hungrily, as if he had never seen it before. “That’s Tana,” he said, softly.
“Tana?”
“My wife,” Tom added, briefly. And there was no bragging in his tone now. “She was the sweetest woman God ever made!” he said, sombrely.
“Your—Tom, your wife?”
“Certainly,” Tom answered, shortly. “Now go tell that to them all!” he added, almost angrily. “Tell them I married a girl who was part nigger if you want to!”
His tone was the truest Gabrielle had ever heard from him; the pain in it went to her heart.
“Tom, I’m so sorry,” she said, timidly. “Is she dead?”
“Yep,” he said, like a pistol shot, and was still.
“Lately, Tom?”
“Two years. Just before I was ill.”