No. I was wrong.
Briggs calmly divested himself of his jacket. He then felt for another
door, a door which opened on to a stair leading to the upper storey. On
a nail in this door he hung his jacket. And then, in his shirt-sleeves,
he was ready. Shirt-sleeves were symbolical. He was home at last, and
prepared to sit down with his people.
Of the actual reunion I saw nothing, for I promptly said I must go. It
was imperative for me to hurry back, or I should miss my train.
"You'll stay an' take a sup of tea with us," said Briggs.
I couldn't, though I should have liked to do so, in some ways, and in
others should have hardly dared to be an intruder on such a meeting. I
shook hands with my patient. Looking back as I went out of the door I
saw Briggs's wife still seated, motionless, in her chair. She had not
opened her lips. It was impossible to divine what were her emotions. She
was very pale. There were no tears in her eyes as she stared at her
young blind husband. But I think there were tears waiting to be shed.
I looked back again when I reached the end of the path across the
cabbage-patch.
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