He had the habit of talking to himself when
walking alone in the darkness. He thought aloud:
"She wants to be alone,--she wants to think. She has suddenly realized.
She is frightened. She doesn't understand. She is bewildered. She
doesn't want to see me tonight. Bless her heart! I'll bet my head
she doesn't sleep a wink. And tomorrow? Tomorrow I shall see her.
But not a word, not a sign out of me. Not tomorrow or next day or
the day after that. Keep her thinking, keep her guessing, keep her
wondering whether I really care. Pretty soon she'll realize how
miserable she is,--and then!"
CHAPTER X
THE CHIMNEY CORNER
A. Lincoln Pollock was full of news at supper that evening. Courtney,
coming in a little late,--in fact, Miss Margaret Slattery already
had removed the soup plates and was beginning to wonder audibly
whether a certain guy thought she was a truck-horse or something
like that,--found the editor of the Sun anticipating by at least
twelve hours the forthcoming issue of his paper. He was regaling
his fellow-boarders with news that would be off the press the first
thing in the morning,--having been confined to the composing-room
for the better part of a week,--and he was enjoying himself.
Charlie Webster once made the remark that "every time the Sun goes
to press, Link Pollock acts for all the world like a hen that's
just laid an egg, he cackles so.
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