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[Checking herself—remorsefully]

I must stop such thoughts I don’t mean it  poor Sam! trying so hard loving me so much  I give so little in return  he feels I’m always watching him with scorn  I can’t tell him it’s with pity  how can I help watching him? help worrying over his worry because of what it might lead to after what his mother  how horrible life is! he’s worried now he doesn’t sleep  I hear him tossing about  I must sleep with him again soon  he’s only home two nights a week  it isn’t fair of me  I must try  I must! he suspects my revulsion it’s hurting him oh, poor dead baby I dared not bear, how I might have loved your father for your sake!

[Suddenly feeling her presence, jerks himself to his feet—with a diffident guilty air which is noticeable about him now whenever he is in her presence]

Hello, dear. I thought you were lying down.

[Guiltily]

Did the noise of my typing bother you? I’m terribly sorry!

[Irritated in spite of herself]

Why is he always cringing?

[She comes forward to the chair at center and sits down—forcing a smile]

But there’s nothing to be terribly sorry about!

[As he stands awkward and confused, like a schoolboy who has been called on to recite and cannot and is being “bawled out” before the class, she forces a playful tone]

Goodness, Sam, how tragic you can get about nothing at all!