It was but a little way.
She wondered, while rearranging her hair, what day it was.

She would find out, when she got home, from the newspaper.
In the street she paused a moment and looked back through the railings.
It seemed even still more sordid in the daylight: the sooty grass and the withered shrubs and the asphalte pathway strewn with dirty paper.

And again a laugh she could not help broke from her.

Her Garden of Gethsemane! She sent a brief letter round to Phillips, and a telegram to the nurse, preparing them for what she meant to do.

She had just time to pack a small trunk and catch the morning train.