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Una had nibbled at Shakespeare, Tennyson, Longfellow, and Vanity Fair in her high-school days, but none of these had satisfied her so deeply as did the serial's hint of sex and husband. She was absorbed by it. Yet all the while she was irritably conscious of her mother's cough hacking, sore-sounding, throat-catching.
There was something rather throat-catching about his treatment of her mother that made Alma want to cry. He would never tire of marveling, not alone at the wonder of her, but at the wonder that she was his. "No man has ever been as lucky in women as I have, Carrie," he told her once in Alma's hearing. "It seemed to me that after my little mother there couldn't ever be another and now you!"
She dropped back in the Morris chair, her eyes against the cushion, her hair disordered, both her hands gripping the left arm of the chair, her sobs throat-catching and long throb-throb-throb in the death-still air. Carl stared at her, praying for a chance to escape. Then he felt an instinct prompting him to sob with her. Pity, embarrassment, disgust, mingled with his alarm.
There was something rather throat-catching about his treatment of her mother that made Alma want to cry. He would never tire of marveling, not alone at the wonder of her, but at the wonder that she was his. "No man has ever been as lucky in women as I have, Carrie," he told her once in Alma's hearing. "It seemed to me that after my little mother, there couldn't ever be another and now you! You!"
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