"I'll go up and see her soon as I've finished—Harry, täake your hand out of the baby's pläate."
As soon as the supper was over, Reuben still munching bread and bacon went up to his wife's room. The sunlight was gone, but the sky was blood-red behind Boarzell's hulk, and a flushed afterglow hung on the ceiling and moved slowly like a fire over the bed. The corners of the room, the shadows cast by the furniture, were black and smoky. On Naomi's face, on her body outlined under the sheet, the lights crimsoned and smouldered. There was a strange fiery reflection in her eyes as she turned them to the door.
"Well, my dear, how are you?"
"I'm very well, thank you, Backfield."
She always said that.
He came over to the bed and looked down on her. Her eyes were haunting ... and the vestiges of youth about her face. But he no longer pitied or spared. Boarzell had taught him his first lesson—that only the hard shall triumph in the hard fight, and that he who would spare his brother shall do no better than he who would spare himself.
He sat down beside her and took her hand.
"I hear you had some sleep this afternoon."
"Yes—I slept for an hour. I think I'm better."
Her voice was submissive—or indifferent.