He pointed to the repellant bruises. She shook her head.
"He didn't hurt me much," she whispered, "because I—I killed him."
She drew her other hand from the folds of her wrapper. The revolver dangled from her fingers. It slipped and fell to the floor. The child stared at it with round eyes, as if he longed to pick it up.
She covered her face and shrank against the wall.
"I've killed a man——"
Through her fingers she looked at her husband fearfully. After a time she whispered:
"Why don't you say something?"
His trembling had ceased. His lips were twisted in a grin. He, too, wondered why he didn't say something. Because there were no words for what was in his heart.
In a corner he arranged his overcoat as a sort of a bed for the boy.
"Won't you speak to me?" she sobbed. "I didn't mean to, but I had to. You got to understand. I had to."