Explore "Mothers of Men" by William Henry Warner on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
Night had fallen, dull, black, the sky overhung with great masses of heavy clouds. Like a ghost of herself Marie sat staring out of the window into the depths of the deserted garden. Still, calm with the calmness that comes after storm, her unseeing eyes gazed straight ahead of her. How long she had sat there she knew not. She was filled with that curious, numb quiet that comes to one when all fear, all hate, all terror has departed. She was resigned to anything fate might decree for her.
When she had told Gerome all the bitter truth, he had left her without a word. Later she had heard vague shuffling sounds in the hall, the closing of the outer door, his steps crunching on the gravel. Her staring eyes had tried vainly to pierce the velvet blackness outside the window. Instinctively she knew what errand had taken him out into the garden. She could almost hear the thud of earth falling on the dead face of Von Pfaffen.