She must have been at least a
half hour on the way. When she reached the station the
ticket agent told her there was no train until six. So she
waited, quietly. She put on her hat (she had carried it in
her hand all the way) and patted her hair into place. When
the train came she found a seat quite alone, and sank into
its corner, and rested her head against her open palm. It
was not until then that she felt a stab of pain. She looked
at her hand, and saw that the skin of her knuckles was
bruised and bleeding.
"Well, if this," she said to herself, "isn't the most
idiotic thing that ever happened to a woman outside a near-
novel."
She looked at her knuckles, critically, as though the hand
belonged to some one else. Then she smiled. And even as
she smiled a great lump came into her throat, and the bruise
blurred before her eyes, and she was crying rackingly,
relievedly, huddled there in her red plush corner.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
It was eight o'clock when she let herself into her
apartment. She had given the maid a whole holiday.
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