Mr. Dinneford weakly handed her the letter he had received from
Edith. She read it through in half the time it had taken his
tear-dimmed eyes to make out the touching sentences. After she had
done so, she stood for a few moments as if surprised or baffled.
Then she sat down, dropping her head, and remained for a long time
without speaking.

"The bitter fruit, Mr. Dinneford," she said, at last, in a voice so
strange and hard that it seemed to his ears as if another had
spoken. All passion had died out of it.

He waited, but she added nothing more. After a long silence she
waved her hand slightly, and without looking at her husband, said,

"I would rather be alone."

Mr. Dinneford took Edith's letter from the floor, where it had
dropped from his wife's hand, and withdrew from her presence. She
arose quickly as he did so, crossed the room and silently turned the
key, locking herself in. Then her manner changed; she moved about
the room in a half-aimless, half-conscious way, as though some
purpose was beginning to take shape in her mind. Her motions had an
easy, cat-like grace, in contrast with their immobility a little
while before. Gradually her step became quicker, while ripples of
feeling began to pass over her face, which was fast losing its
pallor. Gleams of light began shooting from her eyes, that were so
dull and stony when her husband found her with Edith's letter
crushed in her grasp. Her hands opened and shut upon themselves
nervously. This went on, the excitement of her forming purpose,
whatever it was, steadily increasing, until she swept about the room