Also she tried riding in the park,
mornings, but that didn't work so well, and she gave it up.
There came a Saturday morning, toward the end of May, which brought no
letter from Rodney, and she stayed in all day, from one delivery to the
next, waiting for it. She tried to disguise her excitement over its
failure to arrive, as a fear lest something might have gone wrong with
him or with the twins, but did not succeed. If anything had gone wrong
she knew she'd have heard. The thing that kept clutching at her heart
was hope. The hope that the letter wouldn't come at all; that there'd be
a telephone call instead--and Rodney's voice.
The telephone did ring just before noon, but the voice was Galbraith's.
He wanted to know if she wouldn't come over to his Long Island farm the
following morning and spend the day.
She had visited the place two or three times and had always enjoyed it
immensely there. It wasn't much of a farm, but there was a delightful
old Revolutionary farmhouse on it, with ceilings seven feet high and
casement windows, and the floors of all the rooms on different levels;
and Galbraith, there, was always quite at his best.
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