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ning operatically the while. It went so far with her now, for all this tension, as to make a comment waver about her innermost thought, concerning the strange susceptibility of that soprano to conviction on insufficient evidence. Then she felt a fear that her own power of serious effort might be waning, and she concentrated again on her problem. But no solution presented itself better than the stagey one. Is the stage right, after all? "The sister married and went abroad. Her husband was a bad man, whom she had married against the consent of her family." Gwen looked to see if these words had had any effect. But nothing came of them. She continued:--"Poor girl! her head was turned, I suppose." "My dear--'twas the like case with me! 'Tis not for me, at least, to sit in judgment." "No, dear Mrs. Picture, nor any of us. But if she had been as bad as the worst, she could hardly have deserved what came about. I told you she had married a bad man, and I am going to tell you how bad he was." It was as well that Gwen should rouse her hearer's attention by a sure and effective expedient, for it was flagging slightly. Dave's other Granny's sister's misadventures seemed to have so little to do with the recent mystery of the mill-model. But a genuine bad man enthrals us all. "What did he do?" said his unconscious widow. "He forged a letter to his own wife, saying that her sister was dead, and she believed it." "But did her sister never write, to say she was alive?" "Old Mrs. Marrable? No--because she received a letter at the same time saying that _her_ sister.... You see which I mean?..." "Oh yes--the bad man's wife, who was abroad." "... Was also dead. Do you think you see how it was? He told each sister the other was dead." "Oh, I see _that_! But did they both believe it?" "Both believed it." "Then did Mrs. Marrable's sister die without knowing?" Gwen had it on her lips to say:--"She is not dead," before she had had time to foresee the consequences. She had almost said it when an apprehension struck across her speech and cut it short. How could she account to Mrs. Prichard for this knowledge of Mrs. Marrable's sister without narrowing the issue to the simple question:--"Who and where is she?" And if those grave old eyes, at rest now that the topic had become so impersonal to them, were fixed upon her waiting for the answer, how could she find it in her heart to make the only answer possible, futile fic
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