“她多高兴啊——她从我身边把他夺去了。”保罗走后，莫瑞尔太太心里大喊着，“她不像一个普通女人，不会让我在他心中保留一席之地。她要独自占 有他。她要完全占有他，一点不剩，甚至给他自己也不留下一点空间。他永远也成不了一个独立的男子汉——她会把他吸干的。”母亲就这么坐着，内心苦苦地挣扎着，沉思着。
而他，送米丽亚姆回来后，苦恼不堪。他咬着嘴唇，捏着拳头，快步走来。他站在台阶前，一动不动地站了好几分钟。他面对着黑暗巨大的山谷。黑沉沉的山坡上闪烁着几盏灯火，谷底是矿井的灯光。这一切显得古怪，阴森可怕。为什么他如此烦恼，几乎疯狂，连动也不想动一下。为什么母亲坐在家里倍受痛苦煎熬？他知道母亲痛苦不堪。但她为什么这样？他为什么一想到母亲，就厌恶米丽亚姆，这么狠心地对侍她呢？如果米丽亚姆让母亲这么痛苦，他恨她——而且会毫不犹豫地恨她。为什么让他六神无主、毫无保障、失魂落魄，仿佛他没有坚强盔甲可以抵挡黑夜和空间的侵袭？他是多么地恨她啊！然而，他却对她有着满腔的柔情和谦卑！
突然，他跳起来，跑回家。母亲看到他满脸苦恼的神色，没说话。但他却非要她跟他说话，这又引起她生气责怪他不应该和米丽亚姆走那么远。
他绝望地大声喊：“你为什么不喜欢她，妈妈？”
“我不知道，孩子，”她可怜兮兮地说，“我确实努力去喜欢她，我努力了又努力，但我做不到——我做不到！”
他觉得和母亲之间的沉闷和无望。
春天变成了难忍受的时日，他性情多变，变得紧张、残忍。于是，他决定疏远米丽亚姆，可没多久，他就知道米丽亚姆正翘首等他。母亲见他烦躁不安，工作也无法进行，什么事都于不成。仿佛有什么东西把他的魂儿扯向威利农场。于是，他戴上帽子走了，一声没吭。母亲也知道他走了。一上了路，他就轻松地透了一口气。但当他和米丽亚姆在一起时，他又变得残忍起来。
三月的一天，他躺在尼瑟米尔河堤上，米丽亚姆坐在他身边。那天风和日丽、晴空万里，大朵大朵绚丽的云彩从他们头上飘过，云彩投在水面上。天空一片湛蓝，清澈明净。保罗躺在草地上望着天。他忍不住要望着米丽亚姆。她似乎也渴求他，而他却抑制着，一直抑制着。他此刻想把满腔的热爱和柔情献给她，可他不能。他感到她要的是 他驱壳里的灵魂，而不是他。她通过某种把他俩联在一起的途径，把他的力量和精力吸到她自己的身体里。好不想让他们俩作为男人女人而彻底融合。她要把他整个吸到她身体里。这使 他失魂落魄，就像吃了迷魂药一般。
他谈论着米开朗琪罗，听着他的谈论，她觉得自己仿佛真的触摸到那颤动的肌体组织，那生命的原生质。这给了她最深层的满足。但谈到后来，她却有些恐惧。他躺在那儿，狂热地探索着，他的声音渐渐让她害怕。他的声音那么平板，几乎不像常人的声音，倒像梦中的吃语。
“别再说了。”她温柔地肯求着，一只手抚摸着他的前额。
他静静地躺着，一动不动。他的躯体好象被他抛到何处了。
“为什么不说了？你累了？”
“是的，这也让你累啊。”
他笑了笑，清醒了一些。
“可你总是让我这样。” 他说。
“我不希望这样。”她低声说。
“那只是你意识到过分，自己也感到受不了的时候。可那个连你自己也意识不到的自我，却者叫我讲，我觉得我也愿意讲。”
他继续说着，依然是那副呆板的表情。
“要是你能要我这个人，而不是要我没完没了给你讲话就好了。”
“ 我！”她痛楚地喊道：“我！你什么时候才能让我理解你？”
“这就是我的错了，”他说着，打起精神，站起身来开始谈一些琐碎的事，他觉得十分迷茫空虚，为此他隐隐约约地觉得恨她。他知道他自己也同样负责。但不管怎么说，这阻止不了他恨她。
就在这段时期的一天傍晚，保罗陪着米丽亚姆沿路回家。他们站在通向树林的牧场边，恋恋不舍。群星闪现，云雾掩隐。他们看了一眼西天他们自己的照命星宿猎户座。它珠光宝气闪闪发亮，它的猎狗在地平线上奔跑，竭力想从泡沫状的云层里挣扎出来。
猎户座对他们来说是星宿当中最有意义的了。每当他们感慨万千而又忧虑重重的时候，他们总是久久地凝视着猪户座，仿佛他们自己也是生活在猎户座的某一颗星星了。那天晚上，保罗心情烦躁不安，猎户座在他看来也只不过是一个普通星座，他努力地抗拒着这个星座的魅力。米丽亚姆细心地试探着她情人的心情。不过，他一点没有流露自己的心曲，直到分手的时候，他还站在那儿，阴着脸，皱着眉，望着密集的云层，云层后面的那座大星宿一定在跨步飞奔吧。
第二天他家里要举行一个小小的晚会，米丽亚姆也来参加。
“我不能来接你。”他说。
“哦，好吧，你可真不够意思。”她慢慢地回答。
“不是这样——只是他们不让我来。他们说我对你比对他们还关心。你能理解，对不对？你 知道我们之间只是友谊。”
米丽亚姆吃惊极了，也被他深深地伤了感情。他是做出很大努力才说出这番话的。她离开他，省得让他更加不安。她沿着小路走着，一阵细雨扑面而来。她被伤得很深，她看不起他轻易地被舆论的风刮倒了。在她的心灵深处，已不知不觉地感到他在努力摆脱她。他永远也不会承认这是真的，她可怜他。
这时，保罗已成为乔丹货栈的重要人员，帕普沃斯先生已经离开，去做自己的买卖。保罗就接替乔丹先生的工作，当上蜷线车间的工头。如果一切顺利，到年底他的薪水就会增加到三十先令了。
每周星斯五的晚上，米丽亚姆还是常来保罗家学法语，保罗不常去威利农场了。每当她想到学习即将结束就愁眉不展。再说，虽然有些不和，他俩毕竟喜欢呆在一起。他们一起读巴尔扎克的作品、写文章，她深觉自己的修养提高了不少。
星期五晚上也是矿工们结帐的时候。结帐，就是把矿井里挣的钱分一下。不是在布雷渥的新酒店，就是在自己家里，随承包伙伴的意见。巴克戒酒了，所以这些人有时就到莫瑞尔家来结帐。
后来出去教书的安妮，现在又回到家里。虽然她已经订婚了，但仍旧是个像男孩一样顽皮的姑娘。保罗在学习设计。
莫瑞尔在星期五晚上总是心情很好，除非这星期挣得太少。晚饭后，他立刻忙碌起 来，准备洗个澡。出于礼貌，男人们在结帐时，女人们不能在场，女人也不应该探听承包采煤工结帐这类男人的私事，也不应该知道这个星期挣钱的确切数目。因此，当父亲在洗碗间里水花四溅时，安妮就到邻居家呆上一小时，莫瑞尔太太则烤着面包。
“关上门！”莫瑞尔生气地吼着。
安妮砰地一声在身后带上门，走了。
“下次我洗澡时，你再敢开门，我就把你打成肉酱。”他满身肥皂泡，威胁她说。保罗和母亲”听了，不禁皱起了眉。
没多久，他从洗碗间跑了出来，身上的肥皂水嘀嗒着，冷得直哆嗦。
“哦，天哪，” 他说，“我的毛巾在哪儿？”
毛巾正挂在火炉前一张椅子上烘着，否则他就会高声大骂。他蹲在烘面包的火前，把身子擦干。
“唿—唿—唿！”他装着冷的发抖的样子。
“天哪，你呀，别像个孩子样！”莫瑞尔太太说：“并不冷。”
“你倒脱了衣服到洗碗间去洗洗看，”莫瑞尔说着持了持头发，“真像个冰窖！”
“我不会那么大惊小怪的。”妻子回答。
“不，你会全身冻僵像个门把似的，直挺挺地摔在那里。”
“为什么说冻的像个门把，而不是别的什么？”保罗好奇地问。
“呃，我不知道，别人都这么说，”父亲回答，“不过洗碗间的穿堂风可真厉害，它会吹透你的肋骨，就像吹过铁栅栏大门似的。”
“要吹透你的肋骨可得费一番功夫。”莫瑞尔太太说。
莫瑞尔伤心地看着自己身体的两侧。“我！”他惊叫道：“我现在像个皮包骨头的兔子，我的骨头都，戳出来了。”
“我看看在哪儿。”妻子回答。
“到处都是，我现在只剩一把骨头了。”
莫瑞尔太太笑了起来，他仍然有一个富有活力的身材，结实、肌肉发达、没有一点脂肪、皮肤光滑干净，看起来就像一个二十八岁男人的身体。只是皮肤上有许多煤灰浸渍成的青紫色的疤痕，像刺上花一般，而且，胸脯上黄毛浓密。他伤心地把手贴在两肋上。他一直认为自己就像一只饿坏了的老鼠，因为 他没有发胖。
保罗看着父亲那粗壮黑红的手伤痕累累，指甲都断裂，正抚摸他那光滑的两肋，有种不和谐的感觉，让保罗吃惊。真奇怪，这竟然是出于同一躯肉体。
“我想。”保罗对父亲说，“你以前身材一定很健美。”
“呃！”父亲惊叫了一声，四下望了望，像个孩子似的有些不好意思。
“以前是不错，”莫瑞尔太太说，如果他不是东磕西碰，天天往坑道里钻，他还会更好看些。”
“哦！”莫瑞尔惊叫道，“我有副好身材！我从来就是只有一副骨头。”
“当家的！”他妻子嚷道：“别这么苦丧着脸！”
“说真的！”他说，“你根本不知道我的身子看起来真像是在飞快地垮下去。”
她坐在那里大笑起来。
“你有一副铁板一样的身材，”她说，“如果光看身体的话，没有人能比得上你。你应该看看他年轻时的样子，”她突然对保罗大声嚷嚷着，还挺直身子学丈夫以前英俊的体态。
莫瑞尔有些不好意思地看着她。她又一次体会到往日的温情。这种热情顷刻间涌向她的内心。他却忸怩难堪，受宠若惊，一副谦恭的样子。不过，他再次回忆起过去的美好时光，便立即意识到这些年来自己的所做所为，他想赶紧干点儿什么，以躲开这种尴尬气氛。
“给我擦擦背吧，”他求她。
妻子拿起一片打肥皂的绒布，搭在 他的肩膀上，他跳了起 来。
“哎，你这小贱人，”他叫道，“冷得要死！”
“你应该是条火龙，”她笑着给他擦起背来。她很少为 他做这样的事，都是孩子们做这些事的。
“下辈子你连这点儿都享受不到呢。”她加了一句。
“哦，”他说，“你知道这儿穿堂风不停地吹着我。”
她也已经梳洗完了。她随便 给他擦了几下就上楼去。不一会，就拿着他的替换裤子下来，他擦干身子套上了衬衫。他红光满面，精神焕发，头发竖着，绒布衬衫扔在下井穿的裤子上。他站着准备把这套衣服烤一下。把衣服翻了 过来烤着，给烤焦了。
“天哪！当家的，”莫瑞尔太太喊道，“穿上衣服。”
“你难道喜欢像掉到冷水桶里一样，穿上一条冰冷的裤子吗？”
他脱下下井穿的裤子，穿上讲究的黑衣服。他常在炉边地毯上换衣服。要是安妮和她要好的朋友在场，他还会这么做的。
莫瑞尔太太翻着烤炉里的面包，然后又从屋角的红色陶器 和面钵里拿起一块面，揉搓成面包状，放进了铁烤箱里。她正烤着面包，巴克敲门进来了。他是个沉默寡言的人，个子矮小，身材结实，看上去仿佛能穿过一堵石墙。尖瘦的脑袋上，一头黑发剪得很短，像大多数矿工一样，他脸色苍白。不过身体健康，衣着也很整洁。
“晚上好，太太。”他冲着莫瑞尔太太点了点头，就叹了口气坐下来。
“晚上好！”她亲切地说。
“你的鞋后跟裂开了。”莫瑞尔说。
“我都不知道。”
他坐在那里，如同别人坐在莫瑞尔太太的厨房一样拘束。
“你太太怎么样？”莫瑞尔太太问。
以前他曾告诉她，
他家那位正怀着第三胎呢.
“哦，”他摸着头回答，“我觉得她还算不错。”
“我想想——什么时候生啊？”莫瑞尔太太问。
“哦，我估计现在随时都会生的。”
“噢，她确实不错吗？”
“是的，一切正常。”
“上帝保佑，她一向不太结实。”
“是的，可我又干了件蠢事。”
“什么事？”
莫瑞尔太太知道巴克不会干出太蠢的事来。
“我出来时没带去市场买东西的包。”
“你可以用我的。”
“不，你自己也要用的。”
“我不用，我总是用网兜。”
她见过这个办事果断小个子矿工在星期五晚上为家里采购杂货和肉类，对此她不禁心生敬意。她对丈夫说：“巴克虽然矮小，他比你有十倍的男子汉气概。”
就在这时，成森进来了，他非常疲倦，看上去有些虚弱。尽管他已经有了七个孩子，但他还是一副男孩似的天真相，还是一脸傻呵呵的笑，不过他的妻子倒是一个性子泼辣的女人。
And he, coming home from his walks with Miriam, was wildwith torture. He walked biting his lips and with clenched fists,going at a great rate. Then, brought up against a stile, he stood forsome minutes, and did not move. There was a great hollow of darknessfronting him, and on the black upslopes patches of tiny lights,and in the lowest trough of the night, a flare of the pit. It was all weird and dreadful. Why was he torn so, almost bewildered,and unable to move? Why did his mother sit at home and suffer? He knew she suffered badly. But why should she? And why didhe hate Miriam, and feel so cruel towards her, at the thoughtof his mother. If Miriam caused his mother suffering, then hehated her--and he easily hated her. Why did she make him feelas if he were uncertain of himself, insecure, an indefinite thing,as if he had not sufficient sheathing to prevent the night and thespace breaking into him? How he hated her! And then, what a rushof tenderness and humility!
Suddenly he plunged on again, running home. His mothersaw on him the marks of some agony, and she said nothing. But he had to make her talk to him. Then she was angry with himfor going so far with Miriam.
"Why don't you like her, mother?" he cried in despair.
"I don't know, my boy," she replied piteously. "I'm sure I'vetried to like her. I've tried and tried, but I can't--I can't!"
And he felt dreary and hopeless between the two.
Spring was the worst time. He was changeable, and intenseand cruel. So he decided to stay away from her. Then came thehours when he knew Miriam was expecting him. His mother watchedhim growing restless. He could not go on with his work. He coulddo nothing. It was as if something were drawing his soul out towardsWilley Farm. Then he put on his hat and went, saying nothing. And his mother knew he was gone. And as soon as he was on the wayhe sighed with relief. And when he was with her he was cruel again.
One day in March he lay on the bank of Nethermere, with Miriamsitting beside him. It was a glistening, white-and-blue day. Big clouds, so brilliant, went by overhead, while shadows stolealong on the water. The clear spaces in the sky were of clean,cold blue. Paul lay on his back in the old grass, looking up. He could not bear to look at Miriam. She seemed to want him,and he resisted. He resisted all the time. He wanted now to giveher passion and tenderness, and he could not. He felt that she wantedthe soul out of his body, and not him. All his strength and energyshe drew into herself through some channel which united them. She did not want to meet him, so that there were two of them,man and woman together. She wanted to draw all of him into her. It urged him to an intensity like madness, which fascinated him,as drug-taking might.
He was discussing Michael Angelo. It felt to her as if she werefingering the very quivering tissue, the very protoplasm of life,as she heard him. It gave her deepest satisfaction. And in the endit frightened her. There he lay in the white intensity of his search,and his voice gradually filled her with fear, so level it was,almost inhuman, as if in a trance.
"Don't talk any more," she pleaded softly, laying her handon his forehead.
He lay quite still, almost unable to move. His body wassomewhere discarded.
"Why not? Are you tired?"
"Yes, and it wears you out."
He laughed shortly, realising.
"Yet you always make me like it," he said.
"I don't wish to," she said, very low.
"Not when you've gone too far, and you feel you can't bear it. But your unconscious self always asks it of me. And I suppose Iwant it."
He went on, in his dead fashion:
"If only you could want ME, and not want what I can reel offfor you! "
"I!" she cried bitterly--"I! Why, when would you let me take you?"
"Then it's my fault," he said, and, gathering himself together,he got up and began to talk trivialities. He felt insubstantial. In a vague way he hated her for it. And he knew he was as much toblame himself. This, however, did not prevent his hating her.
One evening about this time he had walked along the home roadwith her. They stood by the pasture leading down to the wood,unable to part. As the stars came out the clouds closed. They hadglimpses of their own constellation, Orion, towards the west. His jewels glimmered for a moment, his dog ran low, struggling withdifficulty through the spume of cloud.
Orion was for them chief in significance among the constellations. They had gazed at him in their strange, surcharged hours of feeling,until they seemed themselves to live in every one of his stars. This evening Paul had been moody and perverse. Orion had seemed justan ordinary constellation to him. He had fought against his glamourand fascination. Miriam was watching her lover's mood carefully. But he said nothing that gave him away, till the moment came to part,when he stood frowning gloomily at the gathered clouds, behind whichthe great constellation must be striding still.
There was to be a little party at his house the next day,at which she was to attend.
"I shan't come and meet you," he said.
"Oh, very well; it's not very nice out," she replied slowly.
"It's not that--only they don't like me to. They say I caremore for you than for them. And you understand, don't you? You know it's only friendship."
Miriam was astonished and hurt for him. It had cost him aneffort. She left him, wanting to spare him any further humiliation. A fine rain blew in her face as she walked along the road. She was hurt deep down; and she despised him for being blownabout by any wind of authority. And in her heart of hearts,unconsciously, she felt that he was trying to get away from her. This she would never have acknowledged. She pitied him.
At this time Paul became an important factor in Jordan's warehouse. Mr. Pappleworth left to set up a business of his own, and Paulremained with Mr. Jordan as Spiral overseer. His wages wereto be raised to thirty shillings at the year-end, if things went well.
Still on Friday night Miriam often came down for her French lesson. Paul did not go so frequently to Willey Farm, and she grieved atthe thought of her education's coming to end; moreover, they bothloved to be together, in spite of discords. So they read Balzac,and did compositions, and felt highly cultured.
Friday night was reckoning night for the miners. Morel "reckoned"--shared up the money of the stall--either in the New Innat Bretty or in his own house, according as his fellow-butties wished. Barker had turned a non-drinker, so now the men reckoned at Morel's house.
Annie, who had been teaching away, was at home again. She was still a tomboy; and she was engaged to be married. Paul was studying design.
Morel was always in good spirits on Friday evening, unless theweek's earnings were small. He bustled immediately after his dinner,prepared to get washed. It was decorum for the women to absentthemselves while the men reckoned. Women were not supposed to spyinto such a masculine privacy as the butties' reckoning, nor were theyto know the exact amount of the week's earnings. So, whilst herfather was spluttering in the scullery, Annie went out to spendan hour with a neighbour. Mrs. Morel attended to her baking.
"Shut that doo-er!" bawled Morel furiously.
Annie banged it behind her, and was gone.
"If tha oppens it again while I'm weshin' me, I'll ma'e thyjaw rattle," he threatened from the midst of his soap-suds. Pauland the mother frowned to hear him.
Presently he came running out of the scullery, with the soapywater dripping from him, dithering with cold.
"Oh, my sirs!" he said. "Wheer's my towel?"
It was hung on a chair to warm before the fire, otherwise hewould have bullied and blustered. He squatted on his heels beforethe hot baking-fire to dry himself.
"F-ff-f!" he went, pretending to shudder with cold.
"Goodness, man, don't be such a kid!" said Mrs. Morel. "It's NOT cold."
"Thee strip thysen stark nak'd to wesh thy flesh i' that scullery,"said the miner, as he rubbed his hair; "nowt b'r a ice-'ouse!"
"And I shouldn't make that fuss," replied his wife.
"No, tha'd drop down stiff, as dead as a door-knob, wi'thy nesh sides."
"Why is a door-knob deader than anything else?" asked Paul, curious.
"Eh, I dunno; that's what they say," replied his father. "But there's that much draught i' yon scullery, as it blows throughyour ribs like through a five-barred gate."
"It would have some difficulty in blowing through yours,"said Mrs. Morel.
Morel looked down ruefully at his sides.
"Me!" he exclaimed. "I'm nowt b'r a skinned rabbit. My bones fair juts out on me."
"I should like to know where," retorted his wife.
"Iv'ry-wheer! I'm nobbut a sack o' faggots."
Mrs. Morel laughed. He had still a wonderfully young body,muscular, without any fat. His skin was smooth and clear. It might have been the body of a man of twenty-eight, except thatthere were, perhaps, too many blue scars, like tattoo-marks, where thecoal-dust remained under the skin, and that his chest was too hairy. But he put his hand on his side ruefully. It was his fixed belief that,because be did not get fat, he was as thin as a starved rat. Paul looked at his father's thick, brownish hands all scarred,with broken nails, rubbing the fine smoothness of his sides, and theincongruity struck him. It seemed strange they were the same flesh.
"I suppose," he said to his father, "you had a good figure once."
"Eh!" exclaimed the miner, glancing round, startled and timid,like a child.
"He had," exclaimed Mrs. Morel, "if he didn't hurtle himselfup as if he was trying to get in the smallest space he could."
"Me!" exclaimed Morel--"me a good figure! I wor niver muchmore n'r a skeleton."
"Man!" cried his wife, "don't be such a pulamiter!"
"'Strewth!" he said. "Tha's niver knowed me but what I lookedas if I wor goin' off in a rapid decline."
She sat and laughed.
"You've had a constitution like iron," she said; "and nevera man had a better start, if it was body that counted. You shouldhave seen him as a young man," she cried suddenly to Paul,drawing herself up to imitate her husband's once handsome bearing.
Morel watched her shyly. He saw again the passion shehad had for him. It blazed upon her for a moment. He was shy,rather scared, and humble. Yet again he felt his old glow. And then immediately he felt the ruin he had made during these years. He wanted to bustle about, to run away from it.
"Gi'e my back a bit of a wesh," he asked her.
His wife brought a well-soaped flannel and clapped iton his shoulders. He gave a jump.
"Eh, tha mucky little 'ussy!" he cried. "Cowd as death!"
"You ought to have been a salamander," she laughed,washing his back. It was very rarely she would do anythingso personal for him. The children did those things.
"The next world won't be half hot enough for you," she added.
"No," he said; "tha'lt see as it's draughty for me."
But she had finished. She wiped him in a desultory fashion,and went upstairs, returning immediately with his shifting-trousers.When he was dried he struggled into his shirt. Then, ruddy and shiny,with hair on end, and his flannelette shirt hanging over hispit-trousers, he stood warming the garments he was going to put on. He turned them, he pulled them inside out, he scorched them.
"Goodness, man!" cried Mrs. Morel, "get dressed!"
"Should thee like to clap thysen into britches as cowdas a tub o' water?" he said.
At last he took off his pit-trousers and donned decent black. He did all this on the hearthrug, as he would have done if Annieand her familiar friends had been present.
Mrs. Morel turned the bread in the oven. Then from the redearthenware panchion of dough that stood in a corner she tookanother handful of paste, worked it to the proper shape, and droppedit into a tin. As she was doing so Barker knocked and entered. He was a quiet, compact little man, who looked as if he would gothrough a stone wall. His black hair was cropped short, his headwas bony. Like most miners, he was pale, but healthy and taut.
"Evenin', missis," he nodded to Mrs. Morel, and he seatedhimself with a sigh.
"Good-evening," she replied cordially.
"Tha's made thy heels crack," said Morel.
"I dunno as I have," said Barker.
He sat, as the men always did in Morel's kitchen,effacing himself rather.
"How's missis?" she asked of him.
He had told her some time back:
"We're expectin' us third just now, you see."
"Well," he answered, rubbing his head, "she keeps prettymiddlin', I think."
"Let's see--when?" asked Mrs. Morel.
"Well, I shouldn't be surprised any time now."
"Ah! And she's kept fairly?"
"Yes, tidy."
"That's a blessing, for she's none too strong."
"No. An' I've done another silly trick."
"What's that?"
Mrs. Morel knew Barker wouldn't do anything very silly.
"I'm come be-out th' market-bag."
"You can have mine."
"Nay, you'll be wantin' that yourself."
"I shan't. I take a string bag always."
She saw the determined little collier buying in the week'sgroceries and meat on the Friday nights, and she admired him. "Barker's little, but he's ten times the man you are," she saidto her husband.
Just then Wesson entered. He was thin, rather frail-looking,with a boyish ingenuousness and a slightly foolish smile,despite his seven children. But his wife was a passionate woman.
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