The
day was warm enough for comfortable lounging. The boy, now grown to be
a round-faced, clear-skinned mite with blue eyes like his father, lay
on an outspread quilt, waving his chubby arms, staring at the mystery
of the shadows cast upon him by leaf and branch above.
Hollister finished his meal in silence, that reflective silence which
always overtook him when he found himself one corner of this strange
triangle. He could talk to Myra alone. He was never at a loss for
words with his wife. Together, they struck him dumb.
And this day Doris seemed likewise dumb. There was a growing
strangeness about her which had been puzzling Hollister for days. At
night she would snuggle down beside him, quietly contented, or she
would have some story to tell, or some unexpectedness of thought which
still surprised him by its clear-cut and vigorous imagery. But by day
she grew distrait, as if she retreated into communion with herself,
and her look was that of one striving to see something afar, a
straining for vision.
Hollister had marked this.
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