His unconscious glance made him know already without knowledge it was from Cornelia. He sat, holding the letter out as his hands had received it: unopened....
“What does she want?” beat sluggish in his head like an alarum chiming through thick fog.
He opened it: he put on his hat: he was gone.
This sense he had very sharp: that he was gone. He should, he felt, have stayed, stayed in their room until David returned. But Cornelia wanted him. Coming to her, he had this detached sense: that he was gone....
She gave him both her hands. He felt her face, its sweetness, its dear sweet homeliness. He saw that she was glad he had come, and that she had missed him: how she would always forgive him, and how cruelly for near two years he had been treating her.
She placed a letter in his hand. He faced it. He went to the couch suddenly and sat down....
The pall lifted that was over his great hurt, he knew how he was suffering. The world had been clear—their room—and he in cloud: it had been like a shrill close lake under a hidden sky. Now all else was dim save the burning sun of his hurt. The letter was from their sister, Ruth: it told of the death of their father.
Tom hid his face, he buried also his hard hands in the cushions. That he might clench his fists and his teeth, unseen. Cornelia placed her hand on his shoulder. She was torn by his weeping.
He righted himself. His eyes were burned with tears. Cornelia sat beside him. She took his hand. She placed his hand to her lips.
“Dear Tom!” She was trying to smile. Instead of the smile, came tears to her also. She turned away her face, struggling, not understanding.