“What have you done?” 212 “It is your own fault, Lucia. She yielded it without protest, as though unconsciously. To lose was death, quickly and mercilessly delivered. “Do you mean, aunt,” she asked, “that my father thought I had gone off—with some man?” “What else COULD he think? Would any one DREAM you would be so mad as to go off alone?” “After—after what had happened the night before?” “Oh, why raise up old scores? If you could see him this morning, his poor face as white as a sheet and all cut about with shaving! He was for coming up by the very first train and looking for you, but I said to him, ‘Wait for the letters,’ and there, sure enough, was yours. A ragged gray moustache drooped from the corners of his mouth and a ragged wisp of whisker hung from his chin. They talked for the better part of an hour, and at last walked together to the junction of highroad and the bridle-path. Something draws everybody. I won't dig their graves with my nails. That would come later. out of the ten or twelve people one meets in a month not only say but feel and assume a thing, it is very hard not to fall into the belief that the thing is so. “Now I’ll have what I want from you, wife. Lonesomeness isn't my worry. Was the girl seriously expecting him to pull the trigger? Lord, but she had courage! ‘Shoot, then,’ urged the lady. For what she lacked in appearance, Sheila compensated in gossip.
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