And I’m sitting up trembling. This, the beginning of this, was what woke me a few moments ago. The end of their Bank Holiday. Again a crash. I’m full of horror. Too full of horror for pity. It is _my_ voice this time that must sound that awful cry from a window. With her feet on the floor and her hands feeling for garments, she listened. Perrance was in monologue. Perhaps he was helpless. Probably more drunk than Mrs. Perrance. Perhaps he would talk himself out. Poor man. Poor woman. This is life. However far I go away, this will go on. To go away is only to get mental oblivion of it. Yet that is just what I am planning. Here in the midst of it is the hope that my lucky star, the star that keeps even my sympathies clear of being actively involved, will carry me through this, too, without bringing it into my hands. The voice of Perrance was growing high and thin. Lying down once more in the darkness she could hear each word wailing out into the night. He was chanting his loathing of the mystery of womanhood, cursing it, its physical manifestations, cursing them to heaven in the vile den created by his ignorance and helpless poverty. The den where lived the despair of his isolated mind. Miriam felt its dailyness. Seemed to be within it and to breathe its thick odours as she listened. And to rebel and curse with him. In his soul was light. Something he felt his wife fought against with her dark, silent ways. Why did he not murder her? And the woman was there with her youth. Before her eyes, pictures of Devonshire. In her mind wonder at the way things had slipped down and down, to this; and fear, of this maddened stranger who desired only her death. Well, they adore each other, they adore each other, muttered Miriam as quietness fell. It is terrifying to me because I’m not accustomed. A shriek brought her to the middle of the floor feeling cool and strong. “Stop! stop!” she shouted down out of the window. “I’m coming.” But her voice was drowned in the tumult below. A blazing lamp crashed out into the garden and then came the man’s voice feeble and sane: “We mighta been killed. We mighta been before our maker, Maria.” And a sobbing. Mrs. Perrance sobbing in serene despair. Without fear. Away. Away.... Transcriber’s Notes The original spelling and punctuation were mostly preserved. A few obvious typographical and formatting errors were silently corrected. Further careful corrections, some after consulting other editions, are listed here (before/after): [p. 47]: ... drawing her head across a level that showed no ... ... drawing her ahead across a level that showed no ... [p. 73]: ... le silence que les âmes se revêlent.” ... ... le silence que les âmes se révèlent.” ... [p. 73]: ... The result of their having been, a force de préoccupations, ... ... The result of their having been, à force de préoccupations, ...