cold coffee, and in the same jerky way sat down again. As if too
hot for her lips, she filled her saucer with the greasy-looking,
nondescript fluid, and continued her set glare, her breast rising
and falling with staccato, mechanical movement.

"Now, Sarah, be c'am, be c'am," Tom pleaded anxiously.

In response, slowly, with utmost deliberation, as if the destiny
of empires rested on the certitude of her act, she turned the
saucer of coffee upside down on the table. She lifted her right
hand, slowly, hugely, and in the same slow, huge way landed the
open palm with a sounding slap on Tom's astounded cheek.
Immediately thereafter she raised her voice in the shrill,
hoarse, monotonous madness of hysteria, sat down on the floor,
and rocked back and forth in the throes of an abysmal grief.

Willie's silent weeping turned to noise, and the two little
girls, with the fresh ribbons in their hair, joined him. Tom's
face was drawn and white, though the smitten cheek still blazed,
and Saxon wanted to put her arms comfortingly around him, yet
dared not. He bent over his wife.

"Sarah, you ain't feelin' well. Let me put you to bed, and I'll
finish tidying up."

"Don't touch me!--don't touch me!" she screamed, jerking
violently away from him.

"Take the children out in the yard, Tom, for a walk,
anything--get them away," Saxon said. She was sick, and white,