And the jury had censured the young man most severely; she remembered the look on his face when the people, shrinking back, had made a passage for him to slink out of the crowded room.
Come to think of it now, it was strange she had never told Bunting that long-ago tale.

It had occurred years before she knew him, and somehow nothing had ever happened to make her tell him about it.
She wondered whether Bunting had ever been to an inquest.

She longed to ask him.

But if she asked him now, this minute, he might guess where she was thinking of going.
And then, while still moving about her bedroom, she shook her head -- no, no, Bunting would never guess such a thing; he would never, never suspect her of telling him a lie.
Stop--had she told a lie?
She did mean to go to the doctor after the inquest was finished--if there was time, that is.

She wondered uneasily how long such an inquiry was likely to last.