"Good-night."
He moved sideways to the door, his eyes never leaving her. He paused. She stood just as she had since she had touched his shoulder. He moved back to her, as in a trance.
"No." She held up a hand, as if to ward him off.
He took the hand—and the other hand. They were all a-tremble. And he bent down, slowly, toward her face that he saw as in a mist. The face did not recede. Their cold lips met. At the touch she collapsed, and the next instant she was sobbing convulsively in his arms.
And all that night she lay dressed on her couch.... And all that night he walked the streets.
Chapter XXII
THE PROGRESS OF THE STRIKE
