Martin said “Hi” to her in the halls every day now, a sure sign of trouble. What'll you be doing?" "What can I do?" asked Spurlock, raising his haggard face. “My wife refused absolutely to have anything more to do with me. He seemed safe from the sickness, having been surrounded by the dying, he had witnessed the carnage up close and yet his health still prevailed. Her eyes still had the fevered glow of sickness, yet she seemed in perfect health. Of course, if at any time—see reason—alter your opinion. She longed to allow him to kiss her again, to touch her again. Still, it was true about men. It is difficult to express these things. It was Sunday evening—a soft delicious evening, and, from the happy, cheerful look of the house, none would have dreamed of the dismal tragedy so lately acted within its walls.
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