But it sounded cold-blooded and condemnatory.

She wrote another, letting a little of her real self into the lines.

But that sounded sentimental and moving-pictury, and she knew how Bud hated cheap sentimentalism.
So she tore them both up and put them in the little heating stove, and lighted a match and set them burning, and watched them until they withered down to gray ash, and then broke up the ashes and scattered them amongst the cinders.

Marie, you must know, had learned a good many things, one of which was the unwisdom of whetting the curiosity of a curious woman.
After that she proceeded to pack a suit case for herself and Lovin Child, seizing the opportunity while her mother was visiting a friend in Santa Clara.

Once the packing was began, Marie worked with a feverish intensity of purpose and an eagerness that was amazing, considering her usual apathy toward everything in her life as she was living it.
Everything but Lovin Child.