He could not tell whether the little shaking breath she drew were a laugh or a sigh.
She lay back, letting her tired body slacken into rest.
The movement loosened the little combs that kept the coil of her brown hair in place. Phœbe abhorred dishevelment. She put up her hands to her head. Her wide sleeve fell back, showing the full length of her white arms.
He saw another woman stretching her arms to the man who leaned above her. He saw the movement of her hands—hands of the same texture and whiteness as her body, instinct with its impulses. A long procession of abominations passed through the white arch of her arms—the arch she raised in triumph and defiance, immortalizing her sin.
He was very tender with Phœbe that night, for his heart was wrung with compunction.
"She's adorable," he said to himself; "but I can't live with that."
Gibson left by the early train next day. He went without saying good-bye and without leaving an explanation or an address.
Phœbe held her head high, and said, day after day, "There's sure to be a letter."
Three weeks passed and no letter came. Phœbe saw that it was all over.
One day she was found (Effie found her) on her bed, crying. She was so weak she let Effie take her in her arms.