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Anderson, Sherwood, 1876-1941

"Windy McPherson's Son"

In any event what had been said had
been said before in Sue's presence and he thought that he could remember
her having, in the past, expressed similar ideas with enthusiasm.
Hour after hour he sat in the chair before the dying fire. He dozed and
his pipe dropped from his hand and fell upon the stone hearth. A kind of
dumb misery and anger was in him as over and over endlessly his mind kept
reviewing the events of the evening.
"What has made her think she can do that to me?" he kept asking himself.
He remembered certain strange silences and hard looks from her eyes during
the past weeks, silences and looks that in the light of the events of the
evening became pregnant with meaning.
"She has a temper, a beast of a temper. Why shouldn't she have been square
and told me?" he asked himself.
The clock had struck three when the library door opened quietly and Sue,
clad in a dressing gown through which the new roundness of her lithe
little figure was plainly apparent, came into the room. She ran across to
him and putting her head down on his knee wept bitterly.
"Oh, Sam!" she said, "I think I am going insane. I have been hating you as
I have not hated since I was an evil-tempered child.


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