"Oh, I'll treat you well. I never was so glad to see a real live somebody
in my life. It's been pretty bad here." She gave a dreary little smile as
she glanced around at the funereal air of the place. "Do you know, I don't
think we think of death in the right way? Or, maybe, I'm a heathen and
haven't the proper feelings."
She had sat down on one of the stiff divans, and Ridgway found a place
beside her.
"Suppose you tell me about it," he suggested.
"I know I must be wrong, and you'll be shocked when you hear."
"Very likely."
"I can't help feeling that the living have rights, too," she began
dubiously. "If they would let me alone I could be sorry in my own way, but
I don't see why I have to make a parade of grief. It seems to--to cheapen
one's feelings, you know."
He nodded. "Just as if you had to measure your friendship for the dead with
a yardstick of Mother Grundy. It's a hideous imposition laid on us by
custom, one of Ibsen's ghosts."
"It's so good to hear you say that. And do you think I may begin to be
happy again?"
"I think it would be allowable to start with one smile a day, say, and
gradually increase the dose," he jested.
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