Nor had there been make-believe in the manner she had
left him that day in her eagerness to go to St. Pierre. Adding
these facts as he had added the others, he fancied he saw the
truth staring at him out of the darkness of his cabin room. Marie-
Anne loved her husband. And St. Pierre was merely the possessor,
careless and indifferent, almost brutally dispassionate in his
consideration of her.
A heavy crash of thunder brought Carrigan back to a realization of
the impending storm. He rose to his feet in the chaotic gloom,
facing the bulkhead beyond which he was certain St. Pierre's wife
lay wide awake. He tried to laugh. It was inexcusable, he told
himself, to let his thoughts become involved in the family affairs
of St. Pierre and Marie-Anne. That was not his business. Marie-
Anne, in the final analysis, did not appear to be especially
abused, and her mind was not a child's mind. Probably she would
not thank him for his interest in the matter. She would tell him,
like any other woman with pride, that it was none of his business
and that he was presuming upon forbidden ground.
He went to the window. There was scarcely a breath of air, and
unfastening the screen, he thrust out his head and shoulders into
the night.
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