Her body, her brain, went serenely on in their routine.
The part of her that was her very self--had it died, and not Brent?
She turned her back to the fire, gazed toward the opposite
wall. In a mirror there she saw the reflection of Palmer, at
table in the adjoining room. A servant was holding a dish at
his left and he was helping himself. She observed his every
motion, observed his fattened body, his round and large face,
the forming roll of fat at the back of his neck. All at once
she grew cold--cold as she had not been since the night she
and Etta Brashear walked the streets of Cincinnati. The ache
of this cold, like the cold of death, was an agony. She shook
from head to foot. She turned toward the mantel again, looked
at the cablegram. But she did not take it in her hands. She
could see--in the air, before her eyes--in clear, sharp
lettering--"Brent died at half past two this afternoon. Garvey."
The sensation of cold faded into a sensation of approaching
numbness. She went into the hall--to her own rooms. In the
dressing-room her maid, Clemence, was putting away the afternoon
things she had taken off. She stood at the dressing table,
unclasping the string of pearls. She said to Clemence tranquilly:
"Please pack in the small trunk with the broad stripes three
of my plainest street dresses--some underclothes--the things
for a journey--only necessaries.
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