She had
escaped indeed. But she was like to perish of starvation in the
wilderness.
She slept that night from sheer weariness, but, waking in the early
morning, she lay for hours, listening to the cheery pipings of the
birds, and wondering what she should do with her life. For there was no
one belonging to her in a truly intimate sense. She had no near ties.
There was no one who really wanted her, except--The burning colour
rushed up to her temples. No; even he did not want her now. And again
the loneliness and the emptiness seemed more than she could bear.
Dressing, she told herself suddenly and passionately that her
home-coming had been a miserable farce, a sham, and a delusion. And she
called bitterly to mind words that she had once either read or heard:
"Where the heart is, there is home."
The scent of honeysuckle and stale tobacco was mingled with that of
fried bacon as she opened the door of the inn-parlour. It rushed out to
greet her in a nauseating wave, and she nearly shut the door again in
disgust. But the sight of an immense bunch of roses waiting for her on
the table checked the impulse. She went forward into the room and picked
it up, burying her face in its fragrance.
There was a tiny strip of paper twisted about one of the stalks which
she did not at first perceive. When she did, she unfolded it, wondering.
Four words met her eyes, written in minute characters, and it was as if
a meteor had flamed suddenly across her sky.
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