She was definitely following him. The address was of course her destination, thousands of miles away, an infinitesimal spot in a terrifying space. The militiaman at once thrust the old man between the shoulder blades, pushing him into the kitchen. It was Sunday evening—a soft delicious evening, and, from the happy, cheerful look of the house, none would have dreamed of the dismal tragedy so lately acted within its walls. There was a confused impression of livery carriages and whips with white favors, people fussily wanting other people to get in before them, and then the church. To many in that crowded solitude it came as an extraordinary relief. Of course, one doesn’t like to talk about things until there are things to talk about.
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