"You've known this for some
time, grandmother?"
"For several weeks."
"Why didn't you tell me before?"
"I was afraid it might somehow bring you closer to Maggie, and I
didn't want that," she answered honestly. "Now I think a little better
of Maggie. And you've proved to me I can trust a great deal more to
your judgment. Yes, I guess that's the chief reason I've come out here
to tell you this: you've proved to me I've got to respect your
judgment. And so whatever you may do--about Maggie or anything else--
will be all right with me."
She did not wait for a response, but stood up. Her voice which had
been shot through with emotion these last few minutes was now that
flat, mechanical monotone to which the habitants of her little street
were accustomed.
"I must be getting back to the city. Good-night."
He started to accompany her to her car, but she forbade him, saying
that it would not help matters to have him seen and possibly
recognized by the taxicab driver; and so she went out of the grounds
alone. Within another hour and a half she was set down unobserved in a
dim side street in Brooklyn. Thence she made her way on foot to the
Subway and rode home. If the police had noticed her absence and should
question her, she could refuse to answer, or say that she had been
visiting late with a friend in Brooklyn.
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