"Freddy has gone out to that awful place, to pack up," she said; "I'm sure it's very damp, and I'm terribly afraid she'll take cold. But she would go. Sometimes a person likes to be by themselves," she ended.
He was surprised at such understanding; but he only said, quietly, that he would drive out late in the afternoon and bring her home in his car. "She can have eight hours to herself," he said. (He had had some hours to himself in the last few days; hours of pacing up and down his library—saying over and over, "If Maitland isn't in love with her, why shouldn't I at least tell her that I—? No! I have no chance. But if she should forget him? No, no. I mustn't think of it!")
For the eight hours alone Frederica had been thirsting:
Solitude.
Lapping—lapping—lapping water.
Wind in the branches.
Shadows traveling across distant hills.
And no human face! No human sound!
So, with Zip under her arm, she took the early train to Lakeville.