Thinking these thoughts, how could he, as yet, comprehend the wrong he
was doing Lynda? Why, he was grieving over her, almost breaking his
heart in his desire to do something--anything--to free her from the
results of her useless sacrifice.
At six o'clock Truedale went downstairs, but the house was empty. Lynda
had gone, taking all sense of home with her. He did not wait to see what
the dinner hour might bring about; he could not trust himself just
then. Indeed--having blasted every familiar landmark--he was utterly and
hopelessly lost. He couldn't imagine how he was ever to find his way
back to Lynda, and yet they would have to meet--have to consider.
Lynda, after leaving her workshop, had only one desire--she wanted Betty
more than she wanted anything else. She put on her hat and coat and
started headlong for her brother's apartment farther uptown. She felt
she must get there before Brace arrived and lay her trouble before the
astoundingly clear, unfaltering mind and heart of the little woman who,
so short a time ago, had come into their lives. But after a few blocks,
Lynda's steps halted. If this were just her own trouble--but what
trouble is just one's own?--she need not hesitate; but how could she
reveal what was deepest and most unfailing in her soul to any living
person--even to Betty of the unhesitating vision?
Presently Lynda retraced her steps.
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