As for the quiet place in the Virginia mountains,
which Alice had suggested as an alternative, Rose would die of ennui
there within three days. The only thing to do was to stick to her
routine as well as she could, and worry along.
These weren't reasons that she gave Alice, they were excuses. The
reason, which she tried to avoid stating, even to herself, was that she
couldn't bear the thought of going one step farther away from Rodney
than she was already.
A letter from him was always in the first Saturday morning delivery and
she never left for her atelier till she got it. She had perceived, what
he had not, the steadily growing friendliness of these letters. It
wasn't a made-up thing, either. He was not telling her things because he
thought she'd like to be told, but because it had insensibly become a
need of his to tell her.
A year ago those letters would have made her wildly happy; would have
filled her with the confidence that the end she sought was in sight at
last. Now they drove her half mad with disappointment.
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