“There’s one thing certain, Mr. Ranney will never forget these last six weeks; I don’t care how he talks, he can’t keep his eyes off her face. He has found out what his wife is, at last.”
So deep was this feeling of certainty, that almost an electric, shuddering wave of horror passed over the Ridge the next evening when Mr. Ranney, natty and immaculate, his gold-banded yachting cap on the side of his head, pipe in hand, swung jauntily out of his front gate into the broad, white moonlight that lay along the street. Only Mrs. Laurence, from the contradictory evidence of her own deep love, had a sudden, sweet, half-smile-and-tearful divination, that he hadn’t had the heart for freedom before, with his wife away. Her dear presence now was so pervasive that the whole town seemed like home to him because she was in it.
A Symphony in Coal
A Symphony in Coal
“Did you order the coal for the furnace yesterday?”