Elmer said to Eris: “Ed he worked in West Fourteenth Street. He knows what, too, same’s you.”
“I was a-truckin’ it fur Amos T. Brown & Company,” said the old man shrilly. “I was a hefty fella, I was. I seen doin’s in my time, I did. But they hain’t nothin’ into it. You spend more’n you git down to York. Yes, marm.”
Cyrus sniffed derisively, unconvinced. Buddy, having shaken down sufficient hay, came in with a sack of lime.
“You most done?” he inquired. “Supper’s ready, I guess.”
CHAPTER XXXIII
ANNAN’S letters came to her every day. She answered infrequently,—not oftener than once a week.
Other letters were forwarded from Jane Street,—persistent letters from Smull begging to know where she had gone,—abject letters betraying all the persistence of a man who knows no pride, no shame in pursuit where there ever had been an end to gain.
Eris read only the first of Smull’s letters. The others went, unopened, into the kitchen range.
Twice, also, her husband wrote her,—evidently aware of annulment proceedings,—vaguely threatening her in case she married Smull,—furnishing her with a mass of filthy detail concerning Smull’s private life, menacing her and him, pleading,—sometimes begging for money.
She read both letters, sent them to her attorney, and cleansed her mind of them and of the creature who had written them.