happened, the idea did not register completely until he had his
hand on the linen. Then, with a short yank, he pulled away the
cover and saw the boy's head. Dark as it was, it was enough to
show him the truth. With a quick move he covered him again. There
was a smeary wetness on his fingers, which he wiped away on the
side of his trousers. They were drenched with rain, but he
distinguished the sticky feel of blood leaving his hand as he
rubbed it nervously.

His first emotion was one of anger with Rose. He was sure she had
played this sinister jest deliberately to torture him and he had
fallen into the trap. He wanted to rush back into the other room
and strike her down. He would show her! But he dismissed this
impulse, for he did not want her to see him like this, no hold on
himself and his mind without direction. Sitting there, she would
have the advantage. Without so much as a sound except for the
slight noise he made in walking, Martin went through the parlor
towards the front door and out to the steps, where he leaned for
a moment against the weather-boarding, letting the rain fall on
him as he stared dully down at the ground. It felt good to stand
there. No eyes were on him, and the rain was refreshing. This had
been too much for him. Never had he known himself to be so near
to bewilderment. How fortunate that he had escaped by this simple
trick of leaving the house. Then he thought of the car--a
half-mile north--and the horses in the stable. He must do
something. He would bring the car into the garage. It was
relieving to hurry across the dripping grass toward the barn. How
wonderful it was to keep the body doing something when the breath
in him was short, his heart battering like an engine with
burned-out bearings, his brain in insane chaos. As he applied a