I could hear the pounding of the waves on the outside
shore. Deolda sat outside the circle of the lamp in a horrible tense
quiet. My aunt tried to make talk, and made a failure of it. It was
awful to hear the clatter of her voice trying to sound natural in the
face of the whistle of the storm, and out wallowing in it the gasoline
dory with its freight of hatred. I hated to go to bed, for my room gave
on the sea, and it seemed as if the night and the tragedy which I had
glimpsed would come peering in at me with ghastly eyes.
I had just got under the blanket when the door opened quietly.
"Who is that?" I asked.
"It's me--Deolda."
She went to the window and peered out into the storm, as though she were
trying to penetrate its mystery. I couldn't bear her standing there; it
was as if I could hear her heart bleed. It was as if for a while I had
become fused with her and her love for Johnny Deutra and with all the
dark things that had happened in our house this afternoon. I got out of
bed and went to her and put my hand in hers. If she'd only cried, or if
she'd only spoken I could have stood it; if she'd said in words what was
going on inside her mind. But she sat there with her hand cold in mine,
staring into the storm through all the long hours of the night.
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