. . Murder
. . . That's what it had looked like. Something must be done.
Murmuring aloud to herself again and again "Something must be done"
as she crossed the hall, she walked slowly, her hand to her heart,
ponderously, as though she were walking in the dark. Then, as soon
as she had opened the study door she began, before she could see her
brother: "Oh, Paul, I'm so frightened. It's Maggie. She's very
angry. Fancy what she said."
Maggie meanwhile had gone straight up to her bedroom and found her
black hat and her waterproof. Her one thought now was lest he should
have caught the five o'clock train and gone back to London. Oh! how
hurt he would be with her, how terribly hurt! The thought of the
pain and loneliness that he would feel distressed her so bitterly
that she could scarcely put on her hat, she was so eager to run and
find him. She felt, at the thought of his fruitless journey through
the rain, the tenderest affection for him, maternal and loving, so
that she wanted to have him with her at once and to see him in warm
clothes beside the fire, drinking whisky if he liked, and she would
give him all the money she possessed.
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