She was barely able to climb the hill, and as she neared the house
her trepidation increased. What if Herman had come back? If he
suspected her he would kill her. He must have been half mad to
have done the thing, anyhow. He would surely be half mad now. And
because she was young and strong, and life was still a mystery to
be solved, she did not want to die. Strangely enough, face to face
with danger there was still, in the back of her head, an exultant
thrill in her very determination to live. She would start over
again, and she would work hard and make good.
"You bet I'll make good," she resolved. "Just give me a chance and
I'll work my fool head off."
Which was by way of being a prayer.
It was the darkest hour before the dawn when she reached the cottage.
It was black and very still, and outside the gate she stooped and
slipped off her shoes. The window into the shed by which she had
escaped was still open, and she crouched outside, listening. When
the stillness remained unbroken she climbed in, tense for a movement
or a blow.
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