His voice was one of the last to give up.
I had never dreaded the sound of his footsteps before, crossing the hall to my door. I lay coldly, stilly, and waited.
The door opened and closed very quietly, as if in an excess of husbandly consideration he would not wake me. Unreasonably, I felt fresh anger rise. I could see the blacker darkness of his figure, quite still against the door, as if he were watching me. Then he bent. I heard the unmistakable sounds of him removing his boots.
“Don’t bother on my account,” I said politely. I thought he paused for an instant.
Then: “I don’t care to sleep in my boots. I thought you were asleep.”
I sat up, impatiently reaching for the tinder box to light the lamp. But before I even registered his movement, he was beside me, sitting on the bed, gripp
