“Well,” he said, picking up his hat, “maybe if I go in with Angelo Puma some day I’ll see you again and we’ll talk it over.”
She shook hands with him.
“Be good,” he called back as she closed the front door behind him.
The early winter night had fallen over Shadow Hill. Palla turned on the electric light, stood for a while looking sombrely at the framed photographs of her father and mother, then, feeling lonely, went into the kitchen where Martha was busy with preparations for dinner.
“Martha,” she said, “I’m going to New York.”
“Well, for the land’s sake–––”
“Yes, and I’m going day after to-morrow.”
“What on earth makes you act like a gypsy, Palla?” she demanded querulously, seasoning the soup and tasting it. “Your pa and ma wasn’t like that. They was satisfied to set and rest a mite after being away. But you’ve been gone four years ’n more, and now you’re up and off again, hippity-skip! clippity-clip!–––”
“I’m just going to run down to New York and look about. I want to look around and see what–––”
“That’s you, Palla! That’s what you allus was 53 doing as a child––allus looking about you with your wide brown eyes, to see what you could see in the world!... You know what curiosity did to the cat?”