Roger felt as if Anne were opposing tiny twigs to this sweeping need of his to get them both out of that horrible house.
"Do you owe her any rent?"
"No. I just sent her a check for the coming month."
"Then there's no reason you can't. Besides, from what you say, she's not sure of her own plans. Perhaps she won't come back herself."
"I think she will. But she may not."
"Then it's settled, is it? I can get a taxi while you pack?"
"All right." The words quivered and dropped from Anne in a low whisper as if her last resistance had died. She hurried from the room and Roger went out to find a telephone and get the taxi.
Anne could never remember how she packed her trunk or dressed Rogie or when she turned to find Roger beside her telling her the taxi was waiting. She seemed to be escaping from some terrible catastrophe, her whole consciousness taken in the effort to get away. It was only when they were all together in the close intimacy of the cab that Anne realized what she had done.
In a few moments she and Roger and Rogie would be again in the cottage. Beyond that Anne could not think. Nor did her mind clear to any detail, even as she followed Roger, carrying Rogie up the long, familiar flight and into the living-room. He put Rogie on the couch, paid the driver and closed the door. Anne was shaking so she could scarcely stand.
"I'll make a fire. Everything is just the same, except the crib. I—I'll get that. It's in the attic."