With a sort of pleasure she watched the flush mount in the faded cheeks,
the faded lips pressed together. Then, at the scarcely whispered words:
"Thank you, my dear!" she turned, unable to bear further sight or sound.
She went to the window and pressed her forehead against the glass,
trying to think of nothing. She heard the sound of wheels-Lady Casterley
had gone. And then, of all the awful feelings man or woman can know, she
experienced the worst: She could not cry!
At this most bitter and deserted moment of her life, she felt strangely
calm, foreseeing clearly, exactly; what she must do, and where go.
Quickly it must be done, or it would never be done! Quickly! And without
fuss! She put some things together, sent the maid out for a cab, and sat
down to write.
She must do and say nothing that could excite him, and bring back his
illness. Let it all be sober, reasonable! It would be easy to let him
know where she was going, to write a letter that would bring him flying
after her. But to write the calm, reasonable words that would keep him
waiting and thinking, till he never again came to her, broke her heart.
When she had finished and sealed the letter, she sat motionless with a
numb feeling in hands and brain, trying to realize what she had next to
do. To go, and that was all!
Her trunks had been taken down already.
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