"
His wife stood by herself, facing the inimical Turnbull front, while
Morice wavered between.
"If you'll get along," the former told him, "I can make a living till
you come back. We can do without any Truebner money. I'm not a lot at
German, but I guess you can understand me," she again addressed August.
"Not that I blame you for the change, such as it is."
"I'll have to go with her," Morice unhappily declared.
August Turnbull's face was stiff with congestion. The figures before
him wavered in a sort of fog. He put out a hand, supporting himself on
the back of his chair.
"Get out of my house," he repeated in a hoarse whisper.
Fortunately Morice's leave had come to an end, and Rosalie and he
withdrew in at least the semblance of a normal departure. August's rage
changed to an indignant surprise, and he established himself with a
rigid dignity on the veranda. There, happening on a cigar that burned
badly, he was reduced to a state of further self-commiseration. That
is, he dwelt on the general deterioration of the world about him. There
was no discipline; there was no respect; authority was laughed at. All
this was the result of laxness, of the sentimentality he condemned; a
firmer hand was needed everywhere.
He turned with relief to the contemplation of Meta Beggs; she was
enormously satisfactory to consider. August watched her now with the
greatest interest; he even sat in his wife's room while her companion
moved silently and gracefully about.
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