It had troubled him. But he said nothing.
There were times when Doris liked to take refuge in her own
thought-world. He was aware of that, and understood it and let her be,
in such moods.
Now she sat with both hands clasped over one knee. Her face turned
toward Myra for a time. Then her eyes sought her husband's face with a
look which gave Hollister the uneasy, sickening conviction that she
saw him quite clearly, that she was looking and appraising. Then she
looked away toward the river, and as her gaze seemed to focus upon
something there, an expression of strain, of effort, gathered on her
face. It lasted until Hollister, watching her closely, felt his mouth
grow dry. It hurt him as if some pain, some terrible effort of hers
was being communicated to him. Yet he did not understand, and he could
not reach her intimately with Myra sitting by.
Doris spoke at last.
"What is that, Bob?" she asked. She pointed with her finger.
"A big cedar stump," he replied. It stood about thirty feet away.
"Is it dark on one side and light on the other?"
"It's blackened by fire and the raw wood shows on one side where a
piece is split off.
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