her heart.

With thumb and forefinger she swept the dripping suds first from one arm
and then from the other. He put his arms round her massive waist and
kissed her wet steamy lips. The tears welled into her eyes--not so much
from strength of feeling as from the weakness of chronic overwork. She
shoved him away from her, but not before he caught a glimpse of her moist
eyes.

"You'll find breakfast in the oven," she said hurriedly. "Jim ought to
be up now. I had to get up early for the washing. Now get along with
you and get out of the house early. It won't be nice to-day, what of Tom
quittin' an' nobody but Bernard to drive the wagon."

Martin went into the kitchen with a sinking heart, the image of her red
face and slatternly form eating its way like acid into his brain. She
might love him if she only had some time, he concluded. But she was
worked to death. Bernard Higginbotham was a brute to work her so hard.
But he could not help but feel, on the other hand, that there had not
been anything beautiful in that kiss. It was true, it was an unusual
kiss. For years she had kissed him only when he returned from voyages or
departed on voyages. But this kiss had tasted soapsuds, and the lips, he
had noticed, were flabby. There had been no quick, vigorous lip-pressure
such as should accompany any kiss. Hers was the kiss of a tired woman
who had been tired so long that she had forgotten how to kiss. He
remembered her as a girl, before her marriage, when she would dance with
the best, all night, after a hard day's work at the laundry, and think
nothing of leaving the dance to go to another day's hard work. And then
he thought of Ruth and the cool sweetness that must reside in her lips as
it resided in all about her. Her kiss would be like her hand-shake or