He had married Geraldine Grey, and had become
president of a bank; he had increased in wealth and distinction, until
no one stood higher on the social platform of Boston than he did. He had
been to the Legislature twice and to Congress once, and was the Hon.
Burton Jerrold, respected by every one, and, what to his narrow mind was
better still, he was looked upon as an aristocrat of the bluest type.
None of his friends had ever seen the queer old hermit at the
farm-house, or Hannah either for that matter, for she had seldom been in
Boston since Grey was a baby, and on the rare occasions when she did go
she only passed the day, and had her lunch in the privacy of Mrs.
Geraldine's room. Once or twice a year, as was convenient, Burton had
been to the farm-house to see his father, whom he always found the same
silent, brooding man, with hair as white as snow, and shoulders so bent
that it was difficult to believe he had ever been upright. And so,
gradually, Burton had ceased to wonder at his father's peculiarities and
had forgotten his suspicions; but now they returned to him again, and he
shivered as there swept suddenly over him one of those undefinable
presentiments which sometimes come to us, and for which we cannot
account.
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