The pale lips murmured, "No--no, thank you." She was not hating him.
He existed for her only as a symbol, in this hideous dream called life, that was coiled like a snake about her and was befouling her and stinging her to death.
"Don't you bother 'bout supper," said he with gruff, shamefaced generosity.

"I'll look out for myself, this onct." He withdrew to the kitchen, where she heard him clattering dishes and pans.

Daylight waned to twilight, twilight to dusk, to darkness.

She did not think; she did not feel, except an occasional dull pang from some bodily bruise.

Her soul, her mind, were absolutely numb.