"
And, very reluctantly, at last he gave it to her. Graham was
severely wounded. It was from a man in his own department at
Washington who had just seen the official list. The nature of
his wounding had not been stated.
Natalie looked up from the telegram with a face like a painted
mask.
"This is your doing," she said. "You wanted him to go. You sent
him into this. He will die, and you will have murdered him."
The thought came to him, in that hour of stress, that she was right.
Pitifully, damnably right. He had not wanted Graham to go, but he
had wanted him to want to go. A thousand thoughts flashed through
his mind, of Delight, sleeping somewhere quietly after her day's
work at the camp; of Graham himself, of that morning after the
explosion, and his frank, pitiful confession. And again of Graham,
suffering, perhaps dying, and with none of his own about him. And
through it all was the feeling that he must try to bring Natalie to
reason, that it was incredible that she should call him his own son's
murderer.
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