"I've been near starving sometimes since. So I saved her from
that,"--looking steadily at the Doctor, when he had finished speaking,
but as if he did not see him.
"But your wife? Have you never seen her since?"
"Once." He spoke with difficulty now, but the clergyman suffered him to
go on. "I don't know where she is now. I saw her once in the Fulton
ferry-boat at New York; she had grown suddenly old and hard. She did not
see me. I never thought she could grow so old as that. But I did what I
could. I saved her from my life."
Dr. Bowdler looked into the man's eyes as a physician might look at a
cancer.
"Since then you have not seen her, I understand you? Not wished to see
her?"
There was a moment's pause.
"I have told you the facts of my life, Sir," said the old machinist,
with a bow, his stubbly gray hair seeming to stand more erect; "the rest
is of trifling interest."
Dr. Bowdler colored.
"Don't be unjust to me, my friend," he said, kindly. "I meant well."
There had been some shuffling noises in the next room in the half-hour
just past, which the Doctor had heard uneasily, raising his voice each
time to stifle the sound.
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