He sought to see
this woman who was his wife. To this end came his words, old words, old
words he had tried often, often failed with, words that would come again
since they were the words of his seeking to find the woman his wife.
"Esther," he said, "it is nine o'clock and I have much work to do--a
couple of hours of work.--"--I could work faster alone, it will be
midnight so with this pain for ever in my eyes. "Esther won't you go
home and put Florchen to bed?"
She looked at him with her full lovely eyes. Why since he saw them
lovely could he not see them loving? He had said these words before, so
often before. She looked at him.
"Esther," he said, "it is bad for a baby of four to be up so late. It is
bad for her to sit around on the floor under the gas--smelling the gas
and the gasoline and the steam of the clothes. Can't you consider
Flora?"
"I am afraid."
"What is there to be afraid of? Can't you see? Why aren't you afraid of
what will happen to Flora? Eh--that don't frighten you, does it? She's a
baby. If my Mother could see--"
"Meyer, I can't. Meyer, I can't. You know that I can't."
He waved his hands. She was stiff. They came no nearer one to the other.
About them each, two poles, swirled thoughts and feeling--a world that
did not touch the other.
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