In a state of mind compounded of these wearing emotions, she had set out
in the early morning to find out what had become of him; if he was
sleeping off a drunken debauch at Peter Mauger's, to give them both a
vigorous piece of her mind; if he was not there, to find out where he
was; in any case to vent on some one the pent-up feelings of the night.
Vigorous hammering on Peter Mauger's door produced first his old
housekeeper, and presently himself, heavy-eyed, dull-witted, and in
flagrant dishabille, since Mrs. Guille had but a moment ago shaken him
out of the sleep of those who drink not wisely over-night, with the
information that a crazy woman wanted him at the door.
"Where's Tom?" demanded Julie, ready to empty the vials of her wrath on
the delinquent as soon as he was produced.
But Peter's manner at once dissipated that expectation.
"Tom?" he said vaguely, and gazed at her with a bovine stupidity that
jarred her strained nerves like a blow.
"Yes, Tom--my husband, fool! Where is he?" she asked sharply.
"Where is he?" scratching his tousled head to quicken his wits.
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