"She mustn't see this page," he said to himself. "I must get it out of here and burn it."
He glanced at his wife again. She was reading her sheet interestedly. He separated the part that contained the city news and was preparing to smuggle it from the room under his coat.
"Here is the account of the dance," she exclaimed, looking up, "and you need not tell me any more—"
"The what!"
"The dance, and I can read all—"
"Did we get two papers this morning?" Tom stammered, feeling cold about the heart.
"No, I have the society sheet, and it tells what everybody wore—Why, what is the matter with you, Tom? You look sick. You are not sick, are you, Tom?" she asked, rising and coming over to him.
"No, no, I am not sick. I am all right. Go on and read the description of the dresses; that will relieve me more than anything else. I'll not have to think it all up."
"Oh, but you look sick."
"I am not; I am—I never was so well. See how strong I am. I can crush that piece of paper up into a very small ball with my bare hands. I am awfully strong."