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A hot wave of unease almost of remorse, swept over Bunting. Ellen would never have spent that penny on herself - he knew that well enough - and if it hadn't been so cold, so foggy, so - so drizzly, he would have gone out again through the gate and stood under the street lamp to take his pleasure. He dreaded with a nervous dread the glance of Ellen's cold, reproving light-blue eye. That glance would tell him that he had had no business to waste a penny on a paper, and that well he knew it!
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Suddenly the door in front of him opened, and he beard a familiar voice saying crossly, yet anxiously, "What on earth are you doing out there, Bunting? Come in - do! You'll catch your death of cold! I don't want to have you ill on my hands as well as everything else!" Mrs. Bunting rarely uttered so many words at once nowadays.
He walked in through the front door of his cheerless house. "I went out to get a paper," he said sullenly.
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