Excerpt: ... but no sound came from him. For a moment the dreadful thought raced through me that 186 I had indeed shot him, that in some mysterious way he was mortally hurt, without this particular bullet announcing itself as bullets usually do. I looked at the revolver, stupidly. It seemed to have grown heavy, as heavy as a cook-stove in my hand. ...Read MoreExcerpt: ... but no sound came from him. For a moment the dreadful thought raced through me that 186 I had indeed shot him, that in some mysterious way he was mortally hurt, without this particular bullet announcing itself as bullets usually do. I looked at the revolver, stupidly. It seemed to have grown heavy, as heavy as a cook-stove in my hand. "You'd do that?" whispered my husband, very slowly, with a stricken light in his eyes which I couldn't quite understand. I intended to put the Colt on the table. But something must have been wrong with my vision, for the loathsome thing fell loathsomely to the floor. I felt sick and shaken and a horrible misty feeling of homelessness settled down about me, of a sudden, for I remembered how closely I had skirted the black gulf of murder. "Oh, Dinky-Dunk!" I blubbered, weakly, as I groped toward him. He must have thought that I was going to fall, for he put out his arm and held me up. He held me up, but there wasn't an atom of warmth in his embrace. He held me up about the same as he'd hold up an open wheat-sack that threatened to tumble over on his granary floor. I don't know what reaction it was that took my strength away from me, but I clung to his shoulders and sobbed there. I felt as alone in the gray wastes of time as one of Gershom's lost stars. And I knew that 187 my Dinky-Dunk would never bend down now and whisper into my ear any word of comfort, any word of forgiveness. For, however things may have been at the first, I was the one who was now so hopelessly in the wrong, I was the big offender. And that knowledge only added to my misery as I stood there clinging to my husband's shoulders and blubbering "Oh, Dinky-Dunk!" It must have grown distasteful to him, my foolish hanging on to him as though he were a hitching-post, for he finally said in a remote voice: "I guess we've had about enough of this." He led me...Read Less
Good. Good-/No Jacket 12mo-over 6''-7'' tall npd., c. 1922, green cloth, frontis, illus., 382pp., (heavywear to head+heel of spine+edges+corners bumped, covers lt. discolored, rubbed, pages+ ends yellowed, number 20 wrtten and fading to front cover, some foxing)
New. This item is printed on demand. Arthur John Arbuthnott Stringer (1874-1950) was a Canadian writer. He contributed poems and prose to several magazines including Toronto's Saturday Night and The Canadian Magazine. He published several books of verse, of w.
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