it down.

But Roger was not thinking of that. He was thinking of his children--of
Edith's approaching confinement and all her anxious hunting about to find
what was best for her family, of Bruce and the way he was driving himself
in the unnatural world downtown where men were at each other's throats, of
Deborah and that school of hers in the heart of a vast foul region of
tenement buildings swarming with strange, dirty little urchins. And last he
thought of Laura, his youngest daughter, wild as a hawk, gadding about the
Lord knew where. She even danced in restaurants! Through his children he
felt flowing into his house the seething life of this new town. And
drowsily he told himself he must make a real effort, and make it soon, to
know his family better. For in spite of the storm of long ago which had
swept away his faith in God, the feeling had come to him of late that
somewhere, in some manner, he was to meet his wife again. He rarely tried
to think this out, for as soon as he did it became a mere wish, a hungry
longing, nothing more. So he had learned to let it lie, deep down inside of
him. Sometimes he vividly saw her face. After all, who could tell? And she
would want to hear of her children. Yes, he must know them better. Some day
soon he must begin.

Suddenly he remembered that Laura had not yet come home. With a sigh of
discomfort he got out of bed and went downstairs, re-lit the gas in the
hallway, unfastened the locks and the chain at the door. He came back and
was soon asleep. He must have dozed for an hour or two. He was roused by
hearing the front door close and a big motor thundering. And then like a
flash of light in the dark came Laura's rippling laughter.