“Who can tell?” she said. You’ll end up dead, that’s what. She kept him talking all the way to the doorstep of the Beck's home, a small 1970s brown split-level in the old part of town. "Suppose he does. If he died, here in this hotel, who would care? Or if she died, who would care? A queer desire blossomed in her heart: to go to him, urge him to see the folly of trying to forget. “But I wish,” she said, “I had some idea what I was really up to. My very sentences stumble and give way. Something has happened to change her marvellously, either that, or she wilfully deceived me and every one else in those days as to her real self. He looked at her, his eyes filled with excited terror and astonishment at her move.
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