The thought wasn't born full-grown and armoured, like
Minerva when she sprang from the brain of Jupiter. It began like this:
"If I'd been engaged to him, I might have gone to his parents now. I
should have comforted them by talking about their son, and they could
have comforted me. Perhaps they would have adopted us as their children.
We need never have been lonely and poor. Jim would have wished us to
live with his father and mother, for all our sakes."
When the thought had gone as far as this, it suddenly leaped to an
enormous height, as if a devil in me had been doing the mango trick.
I _heard_ myself thinking, "Why don't you go to see Mr. and Mrs.
Beckett, and tell them you were engaged to marry their only son? The
paper said he left no fiancee or wife in America. You can easily make
them believe your story. Nobody can prove that it isn't true, and out of
evil good will come for everyone."
Flames seemed to rush through my head with a loud noise, like the
Tongues of Fire in the Upper Room. My whole body was in a blaze. Each
nerve was a separate red-hot wire.
I rose to my feet, but I made no sound. Instinct reminded me that I
mustn't wake Brian, but I could breathe better, think better standing, I
felt.
"They are millionaires, the Becketts--millionaires!" a voice was
repeating in my brain. "They wouldn't let Brian or you want for anything.
They'd be _glad_ if you went to them. You could make them happy.
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