He was a manly man, free from any strong maternal strain, and he had loved his dark-eyed, dainty bright-colored, and active little wife with a real vein of passion in his sentiment. She had other boyfriends and hung out at Foster’s only bar most of the time. The young lady—if she had come in here at all—had vanished. “What’s going on with you?” John asked inquisitively, looking down at her abdomen. She backed away, amazed as the thing buzzed loudly in the center of the room. I see them hanging out in the halls together all the time. She had a feeling as though something had dropped from her eyes, as though she had just discovered herself for the first time—discovered herself as a sleepwalker might do, abruptly among dangers, hindrances, and perplexities, on the verge of a cardinal crisis.
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