His wife, too,
was dressed comfortably in some soft clinging stuff. Their visitor saw that
they had disposed themselves for a quiet uninterrupted evening by the
fireside. The domesticity of it all stirred the envy in him. He did not
want her to be contented and at peace with his enemy. Something deeper than
his vanity cried out in protest against it.
She was still making talk against the gloom of the sulphur fog which seemed
to have crept into the spirit of the room.
"We were reading before you came in, Mr. Ridgway. I suppose you read a good
deal. Mr. Harley likes to have me read aloud to him when he is tired."
An impulse came upon Ridgway to hear her, some such impulse as makes a man
bite on sore tooth even though he knows he must pay later for it.
"Will you not go on with your reading? I should like to hear it. I really
should."
She was a little taken aback, but she looked inquiringly at her husband,
who bowed silently.
"I was just beginning the fifty-ninth psalm. We have been reading the book
through. Mr. Harley finds great comfort in it," she explained.
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