As Thayer's cab turned into the familiar street and stopped at the door of the Lorimers' house, the gray dawn was breaking. Before its wan color, the street lamps turned to a sickly yellow, and the asphalt street stretched away between them like a long chalky ruler bordered with dots of luminous paint. Above him, the lights in the house glared out across the sombre dawn, and something in their steady, unsympathetic glow, in the gray dawn and in the yellowing lamps carried Thayer's mind far back to that other winter morning when he had hurried through the storm to be with Beatrix in her hour of need.
The old butler opened the door to him, and took his coat. Then he pointed towards the library.
"She is there," he said softly, with an odd little quaver in his thin old voice. "I think you may go to her."
Thayer crossed the hall, laid his hand on the door, then hesitated. For an instant, he shrank from the scene that might be before him. Then instinctively he drew himself up and pushed open the door.
"Beatrix?" he said.
The color rushed to her face, as she sprang up and held out her hands.
"Thank God, you have come!"
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