There was a train to Folkestone at six-fifteen. She
had plenty of time. It would be wise to have a cup of tea and something
to eat. There would be no sense in arriving there with a headache. She
would want her brain clear.
It was half-past five when she sat down with her tea in front of her. It
was only ten minutes' walk to Charing Cross--say a quarter of an hour.
She might pick up a cab. She grew calmer as she ate and drank. Her
reason seemed to be returning to her. There was no such violent hurry.
Hadn't she better think things over, in the clear daylight? The woman
had been ill now for nearly six weeks: a few hours--a day or two--could
make no difference. It might alarm the poor creature, her unexpected
appearance at such an unusual hour--cause a relapse. Suppose she had
been mistaken? Hadn't she better make a few inquiries first--feel her
way? One did harm more often than good, acting on impulse. After all,
had she the right to interfere? Oughtn't the thing to be thought over as
a whole? Mightn't there be arguments, worth considering, against her
interference? Her brain was too much in a whirl.
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