McClintock does it; and he knows why. As soon as dinner was over she went into the kitchen and devoted herself to compiling a tray—not a tray merely of halfcooled dinner things, but a specially prepared “nice” tray, suitable for tempting any one. “No,” she said, under her breath, “you can’t face it. "I could almost forgive the wretch the injury he did me in depriving me of my poor dear wife—No, not quite that," he added, a little confused. It wasn’t clear to me that I had to explain. "Red apples and snow!" she sent back at him, her face suddenly transfixed by some inner glory.
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