"
"No man could!" said Brent, insinuatingly.
She looked at him coldly a moment.
"Let me see--where were you? Just married, weren't you? Go on."
"Then came the baby!" He said that with a significant meaning and
paused to see the effect on Ethel. If it had any, Ethel effectually
concealed it. Her only comment was:
"Ah!"
Brent went on:
"One would think THAT would change things. But no. Neither of us
wanted her. Neither of us love her. Children should come of love--
not hate. And she is a child of hate." He paused, looking intently
at Ethel. She looked understandingly at him, then dropped her eyes.
Brent went on as if following up an advantage: "She sits in her
little chair, her small, wrinkled, old disillusioned face turned to
us, with the eyes watching us accusingly. She submits to caresses as
though they were distasteful: as if she knew they were lies. At
times she pushes the nearing face away with her little baby
fingers." He stopped, watching her eagerly. Her eyes were down.
"I shouldn't tell you this. It's terrible. I see it in your face.
What are you thinking?"
"I'm sorry," replied Ethel simply.
"For me?"
"For your wife."
"MY WIFE?" he repeated, aghast.
"Yes," said Ethel. "Aren't you? No? Are you just sorry for
yourself?"
Brent turned impatiently away.
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