She looked at her watch. Fortunately it was still early. She would be
able to let herself in before anyone was up. It was but a little way.
She wondered, while rearranging her hair, what day it was. She would
find out, when she got home, from the newspaper.
In the street she paused a moment and looked back through the railings.
It seemed even still more sordid in the daylight: the sooty grass and the
withered shrubs and the asphalte pathway strewn with dirty paper. And
again a laugh she could not help broke from her. Her Garden of
Gethsemane!
She sent a brief letter round to Phillips, and a telegram to the nurse,
preparing them for what she meant to do. She had just time to pack a
small trunk and catch the morning train. At Folkestone, she drove first
to a house where she herself had once lodged and fixed things to her
satisfaction. The nurse was waiting for her in the downstairs room, and
opened the door to her. She was opposed to Joan's interference. But
Joan had come prepared for that. "Let me have a talk with her," she
said. "I think I've found out what it is that is causing all the
trouble.
Pages:
317
318
319
320
321
322
323
324
325
326
327
328
329
330
331
332
333
334
335
336
337
338
339
340
341