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He had pictured her, if indeed she had ever had the courage to do this thing, as sitting alone, convulsed with guilty fear, starting at her own shadow, a slave to constant terror. "What have you got there in your breast—a stone? Is there blood or water in your veins?" The dam broke, but not with violence. He did not quarrel with Rowland's profusion, for his own revenues were ample; but he did object to the large sums lavished by him in the service of a faction he was resolved not to support. She donned her fuzzy slippers and traipsed downstairs, the welcoming smell of coffee beckoning her, the sound of Looney Toons music barely audible from the television set. His wife's portrait had been removed from the walls, and the place it had occupied was only to be known by the cord by which it had been suspended. He can't play cards, either, when he's sober.
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