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Updated: June 3, 2025
The latter part of that episode had been like the long walk back from a picnic, when one has to carry all the crockery one has finished using: it was the last time Thursdale ever allowed himself to be encumbered with the debris of a feast.
Then, following a brief pause, both started toward their cars. The next minute they were chugging away, in the night and the lights in the clubhouse began to go out. Two hours later a stealthy figure crept across the Thursdale lawn, lurking behind the rose beds and lilac bushes, finally worming its way to a dripping but secluded spot under the weather side of the house.
He'll be enough of a damned ass to try to kiss her before all these people, too." Whereupon, he closed his eyes tightly. When he opened them, Miss Courtenay was walking beside him and asking questions about the weather. Her cheeks were very pink. Windomshire had awkwardly clasped the hand of Miss Thursdale, muttering something not quite intelligible, even to himself.
"All this distance?" she murmured. "Down the track for half a mile, Miss Thursdale." "Are were you on this train?" ejaculated Eleanor. "Yes but I I " stammered Anne, her face growing red with rising resentment. "I did not think this of you." "What do you mean? It is May I ask why you are here, Miss Courtenay? It is most extraordinary."
Miss Thursdale, watching the approaching headlight, her ears filled with the din of the wheels, did not see or hear a second motor car rush up to the extreme south end of the platform. She was not thinking of Windomshire or his machine. That is why she failed to witness an extraordinary incident.
"Since I left her at the station? I came straight here." "Ah, yes you COULD: there was no reason " Her words passed into a silent musing. Thursdale moved nervously nearer. "You said you had something to tell me?" "Perhaps I had better let her do so. There may be a letter at your rooms." "A letter? What do you mean? A letter from HER? What has happened?"
The words fell strangely on the scented stillness of the room: they seemed out of harmony with its setting of afternoon intimacy, the kind of intimacy on which at any moment, a visitor might intrude without perceptibly lowering the atmosphere. It was as though a grand opera-singer had strained the acoustics of a private music-room. Thursdale stood up, facing his hostess.
"If it is necessary to have a reason that was one." "To talk to me about Miss Gaynor?" "To tell you how she talks about you." "That will be very interesting especially if you have seen her since her second visit to me." "Her second visit?" Thursdale pushed his chair back with a start and moved to another. "She came to see you again?" "This morning, yes by appointment."
When one visits the cemetery one expects to find the angel on the tombstone, and it struck Thursdale as another proof of his friend's good taste that she had been in no undue haste to change her habits.
"Since I left her at the station? I came straight here." "Ah, yes you could: there was no reason " Her words passed into a silent musing. Thursdale moved nervously nearer. "You said you had something to tell me?" "Perhaps I had better let her do so. There may be a letter at your rooms." "A letter? What do you mean? A letter from her? What has happened?"
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