Naturally, too, Bertram, still the tormented victim of the bugaboo his jealous fears had fashioned, was just in the mood to place the worst possible construction on his sweetheart's very evident unhappiness.

With sighs, unspoken questions, and frequently averted eyes, therefore, the wretched evening passed, a pitiful misery to them both.
During the days that followed, Billy thought that the world itself must be in league with Kate, so often did she encounter Kate's letter masquerading under some thin disguise.

She did not stop to realize that because she was so afraid she _would_ find it, she _did_ find it.

In the books she read, in the plays she saw, in the chance words she heard spoken by friend or stranger--always there was something to feed her fears in one way or another.

Even in a yellowed newspaper that had covered the top shelf in her closet she found one day a symposium on whether or not an artist's wife should be an artist; and she shuddered--but she read every opinion given.
Some writers said no, and some, yes; and some said it all depended--on the artist and his wife.