I can hear her
saying to Ethel that there had never been anybody but her, all those
years. Praising his faithfulness; holding out her dead happiness, and
apologizing to Ethel for talking about it when Ethel didn't understand,
never having had any.
She must have said something like that, to bring it on herself, just
then, of all moments.
And I can see Ethel Reeves, sitting at his table, stolidly sorting out
his papers, wishing that Lena'd go away and leave her to her work. And
her sullen eyes firing out questions, asking her what she wanted, what
she had to do with Norman Hippisley's papers, what she was there for,
fussing about, when it was all over?
What she wanted--what she had come for--was her letters. They were
locked up in his bureau in the secret drawer.
She told me what had happened then. Ethel lifted her sullen, subtle
eyes and said, "You think he kept them?"
She said she knew he'd kept them. They were in that drawer.
And Ethel said, "Well then, he didn't. They aren't. He burnt them. _We_
burnt them.... We could, at least, get rid of _them_!"
Then she threw it at her.
Pages:
451
452
453
454
455
456
457
458
459
460
461
462
463
464
465
466
467
468
469
470
471
472
473
474
475