At sixty his sister was a
withered old ghost of a woman.
He fell into a pleasant reverie. When Elizabeth died, he would set in
some tennis courts beside the house, buy some blooded horses, cut the
road wide and deep to let the world come up Bear Creek Valley, and retire
to the life of a country gentleman.
His sister's voice cut into his musing. She had two tones. One might be
called her social register. It was smooth, gentle--the low-pitched and
controlled voice of a gentlewoman. The other voice was hard and sharp. It
could drive hard and cold across a desk, and bring businessmen to an
understanding that here was a mind, not a woman.
At present she used her latter tone. Vance Cornish came into a shivering
consciousness that she was sitting beside him. He turned his head slowly.
It was always a shock to come out of one of his pleasant dreams and see
that worn, hollow-eyed, impatient face.
"Are you forty-nine, Vance?"
"I'm not fifty, at least," he countered.
She remained imperturbable, looking him over. He had come to notice that
in the past half-dozen years his best smiles often failed to mellow her
expression.
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