Free Rear Window by Cornell Woolrich Page B

the one masking the bedroom remained down.   Sam, my day houseman, came in not long after with my eggs and morning paper, and I had that to kill time with for awhile.   I stopped thinking about other people's windows and staring at them.
      The sun slanted down on one side of the hollow oblong all morning long, then it shifted over to the other side for the afternoon.   Then it started to slip off both alike, and it was evening again — another day gone.
      The lights started to come on around the quadrangle.   Here and there a wall played back, like a sounding board, a snatch of radio program that was coming in too loud.   If you listened carefully you could hear an occasional click of dishes mixed in, faint, far off.   The chain of little habits that were their lives unreeled themselves.   They were all bound in them tighter than the tightest straitjacket any jailer ever devised, though they all thought themselves free.   The jitterbugs made their nightly dash for the great open spaces, forgot their lights, he came careening back, thumbed them out, and their place was dark until the early morning hours.   The woman put her child to bed, leaned mournfully over its cot, then sat down with heavy despair to redden her mouth.         
      In the fourth-floor flat at right angles to the long, interior "street" the three shades had remained up, and the fourth shade had remained at full length, all day long.   I hadn't been conscious of that because I hadn't particularly been looking at it, or thinking of it, until now.   My eyes may have rested on those windows at times, during the day, but my thoughts had been elsewhere.   It was only when a light suddenly went up in the end room behind one of the raised shades, which was their kitchen, that I realized that the shades had been untouched like that all day.   That also brought something else to my mind that hadn't been in it until now: I hadn't seen the woman all day.   I hadn't seen any sign of life within those windows until now.
      He'd come in from outside.   The entrance was at the opposite side of their kitchen, away from the window.   He'd left his hat on, so I knew he'd just come in from the outside.
      He didn't remove his hat.    As though there was no one there to remove it for any more.   Instead, he pushed it farther to the back of his head by pronging a hand to the roots of his hair.   That gesture didn't denote removal of perspiration, I knew.   To do that a person makes a sidewise sweep — this was up over his forehead.   It indicated some sort of harassment or uncertainty.   Besides, if he'd been suffering from excess warmth, the first thing he would have done would be to take off his hat altogether.
      She didn't come out to greet him.   The first link, of the so-strong chain of habits, of custom, that binds us all, had snapped wide open.
      She must be so ill she had remained in bed, in the room behind the lowered shade, all day.   I watched.   He remained where he was, two rooms away from there.   Expectancy became surprise, surprise incomprehension.   Funny, I thought, that he doesn't go in to her.   Or at least go as far as the doorway, look in to see how she is.
      Maybe she was asleep, and he didn't want to disturb her.   Then immediately: but how can he know for sure that she's asleep, without at least looking in at her?   He just came in himself.
      He came forward and stood there by the window, as he had at dawn.   Sam had carried out my tray quite some time before, and my lights were out.   I held my ground, I knew he couldn't see me within the darkness of the bay window.   He stood there motionless for several minutes.   And now his attitude was the proper one for inner preoccupation.   He stood there looking downward at nothing, lost in thought.
      He's worried about her, I said to myself, as any man would be.   It's the most natural thing in the world.   Funny, though, he should leave her in the