CHAPTER XXXII. Though not much passed the middle term of life, he seemed prematurely stricken with old age. “I was sick of the make-believe. ‘Didn’t mean to say that. ‘Though we might have done, if a certain addlepated clothhead hadn’t let her get away. She found herself alone in the train asking herself what she must do next, and trying not to think of herself as cut off from home or any refuge whatever from the world she had resolved to face. "And now," she added, with somewhat more composure, "leave me, dear friends, I entreat, for a few minutes to collect my scattered thoughts—to prepare myself for what I have to go through—to pray for my son. I knew it. Conscience was always digging sudden pits for his feet and common sense ridiculing his fears. John introduced the tall boy. I can’t love you. It is better as it is.
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