That too was part of the triumph he supposed--it was
inevitable that defeat should thus be resented--and as such was
beneath notice.
She was sobbing, almost without tears, profoundly and bitterly.
"I won't go! I won't go! You--can't--make--me--go! You've--you've killed
any love I ever had for you, and any respect. But all that's left in me
would die before I'd move from this place. Oh, if I'd thought _you'd_
lay your hands on me--"
"You're going with me," he said brutally, "if I have to carry you."
He turned, beckoned to a taxicab, told the driver to go to Marietta. The
man dismounted and swung the door open. Anthony faced his wife and said
between his clenched teeth:
"Will you get in?--or will I _put_ you in?"
With a subdued cry of infinite pain and despair she yielded herself up
and got into the car.
All the long ride, through the increasing dark of twilight, she sat
huddled in her side of the car, her silence broken by an occasional dry
and solitary sob. Anthony stared out the window, his mind working dully
on the slowly changing significance of what had occurred. Something was
wrong--that last cry of Gloria's had struck a chord which echoed
posthumously and with incongruous disquiet in his heart.
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