There's a dream I've had every month or so for years.

It's a dream of opening a letter that tells me he's dead, or of a man coming into the room or meeting me in the street and saying suddenly, 'Walderhurst died last night, Walderhurst died last night!' They're always the same words, 'Walderhurst died last night!' And I wake up shaking and in a cold sweat for joy at the gorgeous luck that's come at last." Hester gave a low cry like a little howl, and dropped her head on her arms on the table among the cups and saucers.
"She'll have a son! She'll have a son!" she cried.

"And then it won't matter whether _he_ dies or not." "Ough!" was the sound wrenched from Osborn's fury.

"And our son might have been in it.

Ours might have had it all! Damn--damn!" "He won't,--he won't now, even if he lives to be born," she sobbed, and clutched at the dingy tablecloth with her lean little hands.
It was hard on her.