"
Mrs. Boulte spoke in a low, even voice for five minutes, very distinctly, that
there might be no misunderstanding her meaning. When Samson broke the pillars
of Gaza, he did a little thing, and one not to be compared to the deliberate
pulling down of a woman's homestead about her own ears. There was no wise
female friend to advise Mrs. Boulte, the singularly cautious wife, to hold her
hand. She struck at Boulte's heart, because her own was sick with suspicion of
Kurrell, and worn out with the long strain of watching alone through the
Rains. There was no plan or purpose in her speaking. The sentences made
themselves; and Boulte listened leaning against the door-post with his hands
in his pockets. When all was over, and Mrs. Boulte began to breathe through
her nose before breaking out into tears, he laughed and stared straight in
front of him at the Dosehri hills.
"Is that all?" be said. "Thanks, I only wanted to know, you know."
"What are you going to do?" said the woman, between her sobs.
"Do! Nothing. What should I do? Kill Kurrell or send you Home, or apply for
leave to get a divorce? It's two days' dak into Narkarra." He laughed again
and went on: "I'll tell you what you can do. You can ask Kurrell to dinner
tomorrow--no, on Thursday, that will allow you time to pack--and you can bolt
with him.
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