It was a copy of the pencil sketch taken of him nine years ago by Winifred, and awakened a thousand tender recollections. “I can only repeat what I said before,” she declared. She stared out of the paned glass window, watching the trees being blown bare by the gale force. She refused to eat. "See how glad he is!" His irony and displeasure subsided. He was walking listlessly along, well-dressed, debonnair, good-looking. His wife's portrait had been removed from the walls, and the place it had occupied was only to be known by the cord by which it had been suspended. She answered in whispers, for there was the white arm of a woman in the next box peeping beyond the partition within a yard of him. That shining slope of snow, and how we talked of death! We might have died! Even when we are old, when we are rich as we may be, we won’t forget the tune when we cared nothing for anything but the joy of one another, when we risked everything for one another, when all the wrappings and coverings seemed to have fallen from life and left it light and fire.
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