"O God, teach men! Teach Osborn. Let them know. Let them think and have pity. Make him admire me, God. Make him admire me for the children I've suffered over, even if my face is spoiled. But, God, don't let me be spoiled. Can't I recover? O God, why do You spoil women? It's not fair. Help me! Keep him from the other women—the women who are fresher and prettier than me. Help me to fight. Let me win. Keep him loving me. Keep him thinking of me every day. For Christ's sake."
And after that she prayed on in some formless way till the clock struck half-past eleven, and a rapping came upon the other side of the wall, and with it sounded Osborn's muffled voice.
He somehow guessed that she would cry a little; get things over quietly by herself. It was the best way. But it was now half-past eleven....
She rose, rapped back, and tidied her hair quickly before the round mirror over the mantelpiece. Her face was ravaged. But in the bedroom she would have to undress by a very subdued light lest she awakened the baby, so he would not see, even if he wished to see. She knew, however, that he did not wish it. After making neat piles of the scattered garments again, she raked out the fire, switched off the lights, and went quietly into the bedroom.
His voice was a little testy to conceal his apprehensions.
"I must say you haven't hurried! You haven't been making me half a dozen new shirts, have you, old girl?"
She replied in a carefully-steadied tone: "There was a good deal to do, and I wanted to finish it."
He pulled his bedclothes up higher around him. "Well, thanks awfully. Afraid I rushed you. You won't be long now, will you? I want to get to sleep, and I can't with someone moving about."
"I'll be quick. There's baby's bottle to do—it's long past time. She hasn't waked, I suppose?"
"No; hasn't made a sound."