“After asking your advice,” she said.
“Exactly.”
“I don’t know why I broke that window. Except I think that I wanted to get away.”
“But why didn’t you come to me?”
“I didn’t know where you were. And besides—I didn’t somehow want to come to you.”
“But wasn’t it wretched in prison? Wasn’t it miserably cold? I used to think of you of nights in some wretched ill-aired cell.... You....”
“It was cold,” she admitted. “But it was very good for me. It was quiet. The first few days seemed endless; then they began to go by quickly. Quite quickly at last. And I came to think. In the day there was a little stool where one sat. I used to sit on that and brood and try to think things out—all sorts of things I’ve never had the chance to think about before.”
“Yes,” said Mr. Brumley.
“All this,” she said.
“And it has brought you back here!” he said, with something of the tone of one who has a right to enquire, with some flavour too of reproach.