That sort of writing is not my line, you
know. My only feeling," I added, noticing that she waited for more, "is
the impulse to explain, discover, get it out of me somehow, and so get
rid of it. Not by writing, though--as yet." And again I repeated my
former question:
"What in the world do you think it is?" My voice had become
involuntarily hushed. There was awe in it. Her answer, given with slow
emphasis, brought back all my reserve: the phraseology provoked me
rather:--"Whatever it is, Bill, it is not of God."
I got up to go downstairs. I believe I shrugged my shoulders. "Would you
like to leave, Frances? Shall we go back to town?" I suggested this at
the door, and hearing no immediate reply, I turned back to look. Frances
was sitting with her head bowed over and buried in her hands. The
attitude horribly suggested tears. No woman, I realized, can keep back
the pressure of strong emotion as long as Frances had done, without
ending in a fluid collapse. I waited a moment uneasily, longing to
comfort, yet afraid to act--and in this way discovered the existence of
the appalling emotion in myself, hitherto but half guessed. At all costs
a scene must be prevented: it would involve such exaggeration and
overstatement.
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