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Finally, a distinct impression escaped from her. "What makes you put so much butter on the steak?" he asked her one evening, standing around in the kitchen. "To make it good, of course," she answered. "Butter is awful dear these days," he suggested. "You wouldn’t mind it if you were working," she answered. He shut up after this, and went in to his paper, but the retort rankled in his mind. It was the first cutting remark that had come from her. That same evening, Carrie, after reading, went off to the front room to bed. This was unusual. When Hurstwood decided to go, he retired, as usual, without a light. It was then that he discovered Carrie’s absence. "That’s funny," he said; "maybe she’s sitting up." He gave the matter no more thought, but slept. In the morning she was not beside him. Strange to say, this passed without comment. Night approaching, and a slightly more conversational feeling prevailing, Carrie said: "I think I’ll sleep alone to-night. I have a headache." "All right," said Hurstwood. The third night she went to her front bed without apologies. This was a grim blow to Hurstwood, but he never mentioned it. "All right," he said to himself, with an irrepressible frown, "let her sleep alone." |