“Come,” she said. ” “Sorry. To be alone with her, in idleness, was an intolerable thought. For a time she looked at no more apartments, and walked through gaunt and ill-cleaned streets, through the sordid under side of life, perplexed and troubled, ashamed of her previous obtuseness. John, I have something to say to you. She had in her suitcase a small scrapbook, only a few pages, what little information she had gathered on him through the years. She told you —the truth. Yet you catch her eye—you can’t seem to escape from it. I ought to have gone long ago. She could feel her face turning beet red. I love the soles of your feet.
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