He had promised her some books, for she had voiced her hunger for stories. The Night-Cellar XVIII. He felt her warm breath upon his cheek, the perfume of her hair as she leaned over him. “I do not suppose he will be home till late. The will to live had returned. And at the thought of that other lover—he was convinced that that beloved person was a lover, and she found herself unable to say a word to explain to him that this other person, the person she loved, did not even know of her love—Ramage grew angry and savage once more, and returned suddenly to gibe and insult. The boy was coming around. Eh? Banging against the old rollers—that'll put some life into us both. She got pregnant.
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