You're not to blame--for this wretched situation." The train came then, and he put me on board, and he kissed me again--but I was expecting it this time, of course.

Then I whizzed off, and he was left standing all alone on the platform.

And I felt so sorry for him; and all the way down to Boston I kept thinking of him--what he said, and how he looked, and how fine and splendid and any-woman-would-be-proud-of-him he was as he stood on the platform waving good-bye.
And so I guess I was still thinking of him and being sorry for him when I got to Boston.

That's why I couldn't be so crazy and hilariously glad when the folks met me, I suspect.

Some way, all of a sudden, I found myself wishing _he_ could be there, too.
Of course, I knew that that was bad and wicked and unkind to Mother, and she'd feel so grieved not to have me satisfied with her.