Tuesday. 1 A.M. Same figure, but with long rodlike structure—See Crawford—across both shoulders. Figure bent, as though carrying weight.
Wednesday. 12:30 A.M. Same figure, with misty projection around one arm, simulating basket or pail.
This ends the record, for on Thursday Will Hartford unexpectedly came home and a situation developed which I cannot yet recall without anger and dismay.
We had not expected him for some time, but he let himself in with his latchkey and came back to the kitchen where Aggie and I were fixing Emmie’s tray. He looked thin and worn.
“How is she?” he asked, almost in a whisper. “Still——”
“She’s still alive, if that’s what you mean,” I said tartly. “Look at this tray and judge for yourself.”
He was so relieved that he had to sit down and wipe his face, which was covered with a clammy sweat.
“I just had to come back,” he said. “I didn’t even finish the business. What do money and success matter if I haven’t her with me to share in them?”
He got up, however, and picked up a large package he had brought in.