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Once
during
the
day
,
when
he
sat
near
the
radiator
,
hunched
up
and
reading
,
she
passed
through
,
and
seeing
him
,
wrinkled
her
brows
.
In
the
front
room
,
where
it
was
not
so
warm
,
she
sat
by
the
window
and
cried
.
This
was
the
life
cut
out
for
her
,
was
it
?
To
live
cooped
up
in
a
small
flat
with
some
one
who
was
out
of
work
,
idle
,
and
indifferent
to
her
.
She
was
merely
a
servant
to
him
now
,
nothing
more
.
This
crying
made
her
eyes
red
,
and
when
,
in
preparing
his
bed
,
she
lighted
the
gas
,
and
,
having
prepared
it
,
called
him
in
,
he
noticed
the
fact
.
“
What
’
s
the
matter
with
you
?
”
he
asked
,
looking
into
her
face
.
His
voice
was
hoarse
and
his
unkempt
head
only
added
to
its
grewsome
quality
.
“
Nothing
,
”
said
Carrie
,
weakly
.
“
You
’
ve
been
crying
,
”
he
said
.
“
I
haven
’
t
,
either
,
”
she
answered
.
It
was
not
for
love
of
him
,
that
he
knew
.
“
You
needn
’
t
cry
,
”
he
said
,
getting
into
bed
.
“
Things
will
come
out
all
right
.
”
In
a
day
or
two
he
was
up
again
,
but
rough
weather
holding
,
he
stayed
in
.
The
Italian
newsdealer
now
delivered
the
morning
papers
,
and
these
he
read
assiduously
.
A
few
times
after
that
he
ventured
out
,
but
meeting
another
of
his
old
-
time
friends
,
he
began
to
feel
uneasy
sitting
about
hotel
corridors
.
Every
day
he
came
home
early
,
and
at
last
made
no
pretence
of
going
anywhere
.
Winter
was
no
time
to
look
for
anything
.
