But as she continued to sob and he looked down upon her helpless, racked body, a softer mood came upon him.
She had made a great sacrifice for him too. She could have had any luxury money could buy—armies of servants, motors, gowns, admirers—and she had forsaken it all to elope with him, a poor man, in Paris. He had taken her to a stifling three-room prison—what a terrible place it must have seemed to her!—and denied her every pleasure she had been taught to crave, forgetting everything in his determination to grow rich quickly by pursuing Chartres and closing with him. And, after all, she had just been a pawn of fate. She had taken an initial false step, and knowing her, he could appreciate how it happened. And the rest of her trouble had followed as a perfectly natural consequence. Like pulling out the bottom card of a stack.
Whatever she had done, she was the woman he loved, his wife. He would forgive her! He would—
And suddenly his overwhelming love for her assailed him in a warm stream he could not deny, and tears were rolling unchecked down his own eyes. He took her head between his two hands and raised her face almost roughly to his and rained upon her mouth, her eyes, her forehead the kisses that made her live again.
