"I understand!" she said. "Everything! I knew it! O-o-h!" There were more resentment and recrimination packed into that prolonged "oh" than she could have put into an hour's upbraiding.
Tom kept himself in hand. He knew the futility of explanation, but he explained. "I won, fairly. But Foley robbed me. He stuffed the ballot-box."
"It makes no difference how you lost! You lost! That's what I've got to face. You know I didn't want you to go into this. I knew you couldn't win. I knew Foley was full of tricks. But you went in. You lost wages. You threw away money—our money! And what have you got to show for it all?"
Tom let her words pass in silence. On his long walk he had made up his mind to bear her fury quietly.
"Oh, you!" she cried through clenched teeth, stamping a bare foot on the floor. "You do what you please, and I suffer for it. You wouldn't take my advice. And now you're out of a job and can't get one in your trade. How are we to live? Tell me that, Tom Keating? How are we to live?"
Only the word he had passed with himself enabled Tom to hold himself in after this outburst. "I'll find work."
"Find work! A hod-carrier! Oh, my God!"
She turned and flung herself at full length upon the couch, and lay there sobbing, her hands passionately gripping the comforter.
Tom silently watched the workings of her passion for a moment. He realized the measure of right on her side, and his sense of justice made his spirit unbend. "If we have to live close, it'll only be for a time," he said.
"Oh, my God!" she moaned.