She could not--at least she did not--dream that
Lovin Child, at once her comfort and her strongest argument for a
new chance at happiness, would in ten minutes or so wipe out all
thought of Bud and leave only a dumb, dreadful agony that hounded
her day and night.
She had reached Alpine early in the forenoon, and had gone to
the one little hotel, to rest and gather up her courage for the
search which she felt was only beginning. She had been too
careful of her money to spend any for a sleeper, foregoing even a
berth in the tourist car. She could make Lovin Child comfortable
with a full seat in the day coach for his little bed, and for
herself it did not matter. She could not sleep anyway. So she sat
up all night and thought, and worried over the future which was
foolish, since the future held nothing at all that she pictured
in it.
She was tired when she reached the hotel, carrying Lovin Child
and her suit case too--porters being unheard of in small
villages, and the one hotel being too sure of its patronage to
bother about getting guests from depot to hall bedroom. A deaf
old fellow with white whiskers and poor eyesight fumbled two or
three keys on a nail, chose one and led the way down a little
dark hall to a little, stuffy room with another door opening
directly on the sidewalk.
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