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 quickly—so quickly that more than one jostled foot-passenger stopped to stare after her.

She had known that he was coming home—and when. She had not owned to herself that the constant intrusion of that thought, “He is here—in London,” the wonder as to when and how she should see him again, had counted for very much in these last days of fierce effort and resented defeat.

She got back to her rooms. She remembers letting herself in with her key. She remembers that some time during the night she destroyed all those futile beginnings of stories. Also, that she found herself saying over and over again, and very loud: “There are the boys—you know there are the boys.” Because, when you have two little brothers to keep, you must not allow yourself to forget it.

But for the rest she remembers little distinctly. Only she is sure that she did not cry, and that she did not sleep.

In the morning she found her rooms very tidy and her box packed. She had put in the boys’ portraits, because one must always remember the boys.

She got a cab and she caught a train, and