reins of Fate to draw him back, and the more he thought, the stronger they drew, and the more the home he was warm in seemed to ward him off and repel him. He had never yet carried his troubles outside his own home—his father's, brother's, or his own—and his head and limbs gave an impatient jerk of shame at the sharp, sudden thought of having contemplated doing so now.
Then "Lizzie." Then "poor Lizzie!" Then the swift review of his married life, which had been happy compared with past homes and life. Then the horror of "It" (the stiffened arm and clenched fist) struck him with full force in all its sickening, stomach chilling hideousness. The horror that It might happen; but he would see to that.
He got out of the train at Waterloo, but would not go back the same way. He hurried across to the Staines line platform, and caught a train there. That would give him time to think, and calm down. Glimpse of slanting lights on sinister dark water somewhere. He had been a lunatic, a brute, etc. He could see it all now. Lizzie was the best little wife in the world. All her good points were remembered, or imagined, and his bad qualities loomed and ran before him on the same line.… Then the thought that perhaps he'd lost her affections for good and all. But—God forgive Billy!—he'd win her back.… Then the thought the black, tormenting, devilish one.… The thought of the Thing sent him sick to the stomach.
And it was only natural—"A woman must have
