"
Ann sat down with some feeling of remorse. Why had she not known all
this? Was it her fault? He had borne it for the most part without her
knowledge--alone. "My God! It is true," she reflected, "we have drifted
apart." He had hopefully waited, not wanting to trouble a woman already
so obviously sorrow-laden. He seemed to echo her thought.
"You see, dear," and the strong face grew tender, "I did not mean to
disturb you until it became inevitable. I am glad I waited."
Ann, about to speak, was checked by his lifted hand. "Now, dear, all my
troubles are over. Mr. Stanton, the new Secretary of War, has signed a
contract with our firm for field artillery. It is a fortune. Our bid was
low. A year's work--shot, shell--and so on. Congratulate me, Ann."
"My God!" he cried, "what is the matter?"
Ann Penhallow turned quickly, a hand on the table staying herself. "And
you--you are to make cannon--you--and I--and with my money!" she laughed
hysterical laughter--"to kill my people the North has robbed and driven
into war and insulted for years--I--I--" her voice broke--she stood
speechless, pale and more pale.
Penhallow was appalled. He ran to catch her as she swayed.
"Don't touch me," she cried. "I feared for--you--the army--but never
this--this!" Despite her resistance, he laid her on the lounge.
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