stage; formerly Clare had attended to the house for
him, but now there was no one to keep the stoves lit,
to attend to the countless daily necessities. This
was Tuesday -- he would take the stage out on
Thursday: he might as well get together a few necessities
and close the place at once.

"I'll shut her right in," he said aloud in the empty,
echoing kitchen.

He decided to touch nothing within. In the sitting
room the swift obscurity of the closing shutters
obliterated its familiar features -- the table with the
lamp and pink celluloid thimble, the phonograph,
the faded photograph of what had been Mrs. Hollidew.
The darkness spread to the bedroom that had
been Lettice's and his: the curtained wardrobe was
drawn, the bed lay smoothly sheeted with the quilt
folded brightly at the foot, one of the many small
glass lamps of the house stood filled upon the bureau.
The iron safe was eclipsed, the pens upright in the
glass of shot, the kitchen and spaces beyond.

Finally, depositing an ancient bag of crumbling
leather on the porch, he locked himself out. He
moved the bag to the back of the buggy, and, hitching
the horse into the worn gear, drove up the incline
to the public road, to the village, without once
turning his head.

[[353]]

p352 _ -chap- _ toc-1 _ p353w _ toc-2 _ +chap+ _ p354

v?