Supper was over. \"I don't eat lunch. There was no point in rushing into the long walk home. “Don’t tell anyone I told you this. Leaving the library by the same door she had first used to enter it earlier that day, she crossed the two little antechambers and moved on through the rooms. I followed you home on the train. But in its stead—toward morning—there appeared another idea which appealed to him as sublime, appealed to the primitive conscience, to his artistic sense of the drama, to the poet and the novelist in him. However, no one had discovered me, so I contrived to drag myself to my horse. I struck him across the face, twisted the steering wheel of the motor, sprang out myself, and left him for dead on the road with the motor on top of him. When I gave him an invitation to supper, I little thought he'd accept it. "If the best nag ever foaled were to throw me in this unlucky spot, I'd blow his brains out.
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