When at last she felt that
she was completely hidden and at least a mile from the spot, she
dropped panting on a boulder, brushing the debris from her
skirts, lifting trembling hands to straighten her hat, and
ruefully contemplating her shoes. Then she tried to think in a
calm, dispassionate, and reasonable manner, but she found it a
most difficult process. Her mind was not well ordered, neither
was it at her command. It whirled and shot off at unexpected
tangents and danced as irresponsibly as a grasshopper from one
place to another. The flying leaps it took ranged from San
Francisco to Lilac Valley, from her location upon which Peter
Morrison was building her house, to Linda. Even John Gilman
obtruded himself once more. At one minute she was experiencing a
raging indignation against Henry Anderson. How had he secured
her plan? At another she was trying to figure dispassionately
what connection Peter Morrison could have had with the building
of his house upon her plan. Every time Peter came into the
equation her heart arose in his defense. In some way his share
in the proceeding was all right. He had cared for her and he had
done what he thought would please her. Therefore she must be
pleased, although forced to admit to herself that she would have
been infinitely more pleased to have built her own house in her
own way.
She was hungry to see Linda. She wanted Katherine O'Donovan to
feed her and fuss over her and entertain her with her mellow
Irish brogue; but if she went to them and disclosed her presence
in the valley, Peter would know about it, and if he intended the
building he was erecting as a wonderful surprise for her, then
she must not spoil his joy.
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