In a way Emmy had deceived him
--she probably had always been fragile, but was careful to conceal it
from him at their marriage. It was unjust to him. He wished that she
would take her farcical meals in her room, and not sit here--a skeleton
at the feast. Positively it made him nervous to see her--spoiled his
pleasure.
It had become worse lately; he had difficulty in putting her from his
mind; he imagined Emmy in conjunction with the bakery, of her slowly
starving and the thousands of loaves he produced in a day. There was
something unnatural in such a situation; it was like a mockery at him.
A vision of her came to him at the most inopportune moments, lingering
until it drove him into a hot rage and a pounding set up at the back of
his neck.
The meat was brought back, and he had more of a sweet boiled
huckleberry pudding. A salad followed, with a heavy Russian dressing.
August Turnbull's breathing grew thicker, he was conscious of a familiar
oppression. He assaulted it with fresh wine.
"I saw Bernard on the beach" he related; "Victorine is sick once more.
Chocolate sundaes, Bernard said. She is always stuffing herself at
soda-water counters or with candy. They oughtn't to allow it; the child
should be made to eat at the table. When she is here she touches
nothing but the dessert. When I was ten I ate everything or not at all.
But there is no longer any discipline, not only with children but
everywhere."
"There is a little freedom, though," Rosalie suggested.
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