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 every day and the children—only I won't sleep in the house. I'm going to sleep where I work."

In the same dead voice she asked, "You're not going back to the Mills?"

"No, I'm not going back to the Mills . . . they wouldn't have me now. I'm going to paint. . . ."

"Pictures?"

"Yes . . . pictures. That's what I've always wanted to do and now . . . now, nothing can stop me." There was in his voice a sudden cold rasp, as of steel, which must have terrified her. He thought, "I've got to do it, if I'm to live. I've got to do it."

She said, "But you could have a good congregation. You could preach."

"No, that's the last thing I could do. I'm through with all that."

"Oh, my God! Oh, my God!"

He raised his head, and saw that she was biting her handkerchief. "Naomi," he said. "Naomi," and the sound of her name seemed to precipitate a sudden climax. She fell on her knees and beat them with her fists.

"You won't do that, Philip. You can't . . . you can't leave me for everybody to mock at. Say that you won't . . . I was wrong in the beginning, but now I'll do anything. I'll lie down and let you walk over my body!"

"Naomi," he said. "Please! For God's sake!"

"Oh, don't you see! It's different now . . . I love you. Don't you see that makes it different?"

"It can't make it different, Naomi. I can't pretend what isn't true . . . it's a thing a man can't do."

Suddenly she stopped sobbing and looked up at him,