"One thing’s certain," she said. "I’m going away from here, right away. I can’t stand any more of this!"
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
I
This one idea remained with her when she got up from her brief sleep—this determination to get away. Except for this, she was drained quite dry of all ideas, all feelings. She was not poetic; she hadn’t the astounding variations of a poetic soul such as Vincent’s. She was not at all easy to move, and when she was thoroughly aroused—to pity, to love, to grief, to whatever it might be—it took a very long time for the tempest to calm. She wanted now simply to get away alone, where she might examine this turmoil in her heart.
She packed her bag, put on her hat and coat, and went to Polly’s room.
Polly was dressing in her very leisurely fashion, going to and fro in the room, and stopping now and then before the table where her coffee and rolls were laid. She was in petticoat and under-bodice, with her thin, sallow arms and neck bare and her black hair hanging about her face. She had a forlorn and jaded look—for which, however, Angelica had no eyes.
"Mrs. Geraldine," she said, "I got to go. I want to go right away—to-day. I don’t feel well."
"I’m very sorry, my dear! What’s the trouble?"
"I’m just tired. I’ve just got to get away. I want to go home."
"But if you’re not very well, wouldn’t you be more comfortable here?"