She lay on the floor again this time because she could not
bring herself to touch him or go near him. His hands and face were dirty
and he had definitely refused to wash them or let her wash them. But in
the middle of the night he woke up and began to shout for her.
"I wan' my wife. Where's my wife?" he raved and groping till he found
the candlestick knocked on the floor with it. She sprung up hastily.
"Louis--hush, dear. You're waking up all the poor boys who have to go
to work at six o'clock," she whispered.
"I wan' my wife," he cried, groping for her with his muddy hands. She
stood trembling by the bed.
"Louis, I can't--it isn't a bit of use asking me. I can't be in bed
beside you like this."
"Glad 'nough to las' night!" he said, laughing into her face. She felt
the hot blood pumping to her skin until it seemed to her that even her
hair must be blushing. Then she went very cold as she walked blindly
towards the door, only conscious that she must get anywhere away from
him.
"I wan' my wife. She is my wife, isn't she? Dammit! Wha's a man's wife
for? Marsh--Marshlaise! Damn Germ's playing Marshlaise! They're aft'
me--I knew they'd be aft' me! Marsh-shella? Where's my Marsh-ella?"
He pounded on the floor again, and she turned back, wrung by the terror
in his voice. She lighted two candles and he saw that she was by his
side.
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