It was not yet six o'clock, and he knew that Mrs.
Kate would not have supper ready; but he wanted a quiet place in which to think, and he was closer to Josephine; though he would never have admitted to himself that her nearness was any comfort to him.

He did admit, however, that the jug with the brown neck and handle pulled him to the room many times in spite of himself.

He would take it from the corner of the closet and let his fingers close over the cork, but so far he had never yielded beyond that point.

Always he had been able to set the jug back unopened.
He was getting circles under his eyes, two new creases had appeared on each side of his whimsical lips, and a permanent line was forming between his eyebrows; but he had not opened the jug, and it had been in his possession thirty-six hours.

Thirty-six hours is not long, to be sure, when life runs smoothly with slight incidents to emphasize the figures on the dial, but it may seem long to the poor devil on the rack.
Just now Ford was trying to forget that a gallon of whisky stood in the right-hand corner of his closet, behind a pair of half-worn riding-boots that pinched his instep so that he seldom wore them, and that he had only to take the jug out from behind the boots, pull the cork, and lift the jug to his lips-- He caught himself leaning forward and staring at the closet door until his eyes ached with the strain.