It was she who had come out from the flat only a few minutes before. ‘I am not a murderer. ‘But I ain’t been idle, miss, I swear it. Wood. “I’m really very sorry. He might be unfortunate, but he would scarcely be a fool. Get a license—just an idea of mine. “Do you mean, aunt,” she asked, “that my father thought I had gone off—with some man?” “What else COULD he think? Would any one DREAM you would be so mad as to go off alone?” “After—after what had happened the night before?” “Oh, why raise up old scores? If you could see him this morning, his poor face as white as a sheet and all cut about with shaving! He was for coming up by the very first train and looking for you, but I said to him, ‘Wait for the letters,’ and there, sure enough, was yours. —'How so?' says I. Apparently I’m not to exist yet.
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