She wanted to touch his chest. She knew exactly
how his breast was shapen under the waistcoat, and she wanted to touch
it. It maddened her to hear his mechanical voice giving orders about
the work. She wanted to break through the sham of it, smash the trivial
coating of business which covered him with hardness, get at the man
again; but she was afraid, and before she could feel one touch of his
warmth he was gone, and she ached again.
He knew that she was dreary every evening she did not see him, so he
gave her a good deal of his time. The days were often a misery to her,
but the evenings and the nights were usually a bliss to them both. Then
they were silent. For hours they sat together, or walked together in the
dark, and talked only a few, almost meaningless words. But he had her
hand in his, and her bosom left its warmth in his chest, making him feel
whole.
One evening they were walking down by the canal, and something was
troubling him. She knew she had not got him. All the time he whistled
softly and persistently to himself.
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