She thought of leaving the Beck house less and less these days, though the suitcase remained packed underneath her creaky bed. Away up on the hillside was the little country railway station. Not afraid of me, either. It was Sunday evening—a soft delicious evening, and, from the happy, cheerful look of the house, none would have dreamed of the dismal tragedy so lately acted within its walls. Smith will tell you I'm misinformed, also, on that point. His attitude was as different from Gianfrancesco’s as night was from day. Ruth came to him directly. For a few days he was able to relegate his conscience to the background. It was ended.
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