I
remembered then certain other little things. They dropped into the
picture of their own accord. In a mind not deliberately hunting for
clues, pieces of a puzzle sometimes come together in this way, bringing
revelation, so that for a second there flashed across me, vanishing
instantly again before I could consider it, a large, distressing
thought. I can only describe vaguely as a Shadow.
Dark and ugly, oppressive certainly it might be described, with
something torn and dreadful about the edges that suggested pain and
strife and terror. The interior of a prison with two rows of occupied
condemned cells, seen years ago in New York, sprang to memory after it--
the connection between the two impossible to surmise even. But the
"certain other little things" mentioned above were these: that Mrs.
Franklyn, in last night's dinner talk, had always referred to "this
house," but never called it "home"; and had emphasized unnecessarily,
for a well-bred woman, our "great kindness" in coming down to stay so
long with her. Another time, in answer to my futile compliment about the
"stately rooms," she said quietly, "It is an enormous house for so small
a party; but I stay here very little, and only till I get it straight
again.
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