They reminded her of her poet, of
Tommie Gilfoyle, who was afraid of her and paid court to her.
He appeared to her now as a radiant angel of redemption. From
Providence she telegraphed him that she would arrive at New York
at eleven-fifteen, and he would meet her if he loved her.
This done, she went to the lunch-counter, climbed on a tall stool,
and bought herself a cheap dinner. She was paying for it out of
her final moneys, and her brain once more told her stomach that
it would have to be prudent. She swung aboard the train when it
came in, and felt as secure as a lamb with a good shepherd on the
horizon. When she grew drowsy she curled up on the seat and slept
to perfection.
Her invasion of Newport was over and done--disastrously done, she
thought; but its results were just beginning for Jim Dyckman and
Charity Coe.
Eventually Kedzie reached the Grand Central Terminal--a much
different Kedzie from the one that once followed her father and
mother up that platform to that concourse! Her very name was
different, and her mind had learned multitudes of things good
and bad. She had a young man waiting for her--a poet, a socialist,
a worshiper. Her heavy suit-case could not detain her steps. She
dragged it as a little sloop drags its anchor in a gale.
Gilfoyle was waiting for her at the barrier. He bent to snatch
the suit-case from her and snatched a kiss at the same time. His
bravery thrilled her; his gallantry comforted her immeasurably.
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