"You don't understand." Her head, with its two soft braids wound around it like a wreath, was bent so that he could not see her face. "Dr. King, his father—hurt him. Yes; hurt a little baby, eight months and twelve days old. He died seven weeks later."
William drew in his breath; he found no words.
"That was twelve years ago, but I can't seem to—to get over it," she said with a sort of gasp.
"But how—" Dr. King began.
"Oh, he was not himself. He was—happy, I believe you call it 'happy'?"
"How did you bear it!"
"I didn't bear it I suppose. I never have borne it!"
"Did he repent before he died?" William King said passionately.
"Before he—?" Her voice suddenly shook; she made elaborate pretence of calmness, fastening her gloves and looking at them critically; then she said: "Yes, Dr. King; he repented. He repented!"
"If there ever was excuse for divorce, you had it!"