It had passed a
few minutes before, over the lower garden.
She quite forgot it by the next week--she was becoming an adept at
forgetting. That was all that was left for her to do! Day after day
and night after night she had raised the drawbridge between her
heart and memory, leaving the lonely thoughts to shiver desolately
on the other side of the moat. She was weary to the bone of suffering,
and they were enemies, for all their dear and friendly guise; they
would tear her to pieces if she ever let them in. No, no, she was
done with them. She would forget, as Jerry had forgotten. She would
destroy every link between herself and the past--and pack the neat
little steamer trunk neatly--and bid these kind and gentle people
good-by--and take herself and her bitterness and her dullness back
to the class-room in the Western university town--back to the
Romance languages. The Romance languages!
She would finish it all that night, and leave as soon as possible.
There were some trinkets to destroy, and his letters from France to
burn--she would give Rosemary the rose-coloured dress--foolish,
lovely little Rosemary, whom he had loved, and who was lying now
fast asleep in the next room curled up like a kitten in the middle
of the great bed, her honey-coloured hair falling about her in a
shining mist.
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