Loafers and passers-by would stop to
stare at a haggard, red-eyed woman, dressed as for a drawing-room,
slipping thief-like in and out of her own door.
I heard them talking of her one afternoon, at a house where I
called, and I joined the group to listen.
"I always thought her heartless, but I gave her credit for sense,"
a woman was saying. "One doesn't expect a woman to be fond of her
husband, but she needn't make a parade of ignoring him when he is
dying."
I pleaded absence from town to inquire what was meant, and from all
lips I heard the same account. One had noticed her carriage at the
door two or three evenings in succession. Another had seen her
returning home. A third had seen her coming out, and so on.
I could not fit the fact in with my knowledge of her, so the next
evening I called. The door was opened instantly by herself.
"I saw you from the window," she said. "Come in here; don't
speak."
I followed her, and she closed the door behind her. She was
dressed in a magnificent costume, her hair sparkling with diamonds,
and I looked my questions.
She laughed bitterly.
"I am supposed to be at the opera to-night," she explained.
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