"Better go to bed, Mr. Spencer," he advised. "It may not be as bad
as you think. And they're doing fine surgery over there."
And, as Clayton shook his head:
"Mrs. Spencer will come round all right. She's hysterical,
naturally. She'll be sending for you before long."
With the dawn, Clayton's thoughts cleared. If he and Natalie were
ever to get together at all, it should be now, with this common
grief between them. Perhaps, after all, it was not too late to
re-build his house of life. He had failed. Perhaps they had both
failed, but the real responsibility was his. Inside the room he
could hear her moaning, a low, monotonous, heart-breaking moan.
He was terribly sorry for her. She had no exaltation to help her,
no strength of soul, no strength of any sort. And, as men will
under stress, he tried to make a bargain with his God.
"Let him live," he prayed. "Bring him back to us, and I will try
again. I'll do better. I've been a rotten failure, as far as she
is concerned.
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