Dazed, the
man walked along the road past the churchyard. Then he stood leaning up
against a wall, for a long time.
He was roused because his feet were so cold. So he pulled himself
together, and turned again in the silent night, back towards the inn.
The bar was in darkness. But there was a light in the kitchen. He
hesitated. Then very quietly he tried the door.
He was surprised to find it open. He entered, and quietly closed it
behind him. Then he went down the step past the bar-counter, and through
to the lighted doorway of the kitchen. There sat his wife, planted in
front of the range, where a furze fire was burning. She sat in a chair
full in front of the range, her knees wide apart on the fender. She
looked over her shoulder at him as he entered, but she did not speak.
Then she stared in the fire again.
It was a small, narrow kitchen. He dropped his cap on the table that was
covered with yellowish American cloth, and took a seat with his back to
the wall, near the oven. His wife still sat with her knees apart, her
feet on the steel fender and stared into the fire, motionless. Her skin
was smooth and rosy in the firelight. Everything in the house was very
clean and bright. The man sat silent, too, his head dropped. And thus
they remained.
It was a question who would speak first. The woman leaned forward and
poked the ends of the sticks in between the bars of the range.
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