Explore "Editha" by William Dean Howells on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
The air was thick with the war feeling, like the electricity of a storm which has not yet burst. Editha sat looking out into the hot spring afternoon, with her lips parted, and panting with the intensity of the question whether she could let him go. She had decided that she could not let him stay, when she saw him at the end of the still leafless avenue, making slowly up towards the house, with his head down and his figure relaxed. She ran impatiently out on the veranda, to the edge of the steps, and imperatively demanded greater haste of him with her will before she called aloud to him: "George!"
He had quickened his pace in mystical response to her mystical urgence, before he could have heard her; now he looked up and answered, "Well?"