"Good-bye, Sally," he said.
She tried to answer him, but her words were dry and clung in her
throat.
CHAPTER XVIII
The hour of twelve was tolling out across the water from the little
church on Kew Green, when Sally fitted her borrowed latch-key into
the door. She had performed the journey back to Kew Bridge in a stupor
of mind that could hold no single thought, review no single event
with any clearness of vision. It was as if not one evening, but three
days, had passed by since she had left the office of Bonsfield &
CO.--the day they had dined together--the day on which they had
watched that terrible fight--the day, the last of all, when she had
awakened from unconsciousness, had struggled through a cruel agony
of mind, and had finally said good-bye to him for ever. How was it
possible, with the length, breadth and depth of three days all
crushed into the microscopic space of five hours--a dizzy whirling
acceleration of time--how was it possible for her to think logically,
consecutively, to even think at all? She could not think. She had
lain back in the carriage, her head lax against the cushions, and
simply permitted the whole procession of events, like some
retreating army with death at its heels, to stagger across her brain.
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