She was a good woman; she struggled hard to
beat down her jealousy. She prayed. She lay for hours at night
struggling with her sins. If Martin had been worthy, if he had shown
love in return, but, from the bottom of her soul, as the days
increased she despised him--despised him for his light heart, his
care of worldly things, his utter lack of comprehension of their
father, his scorn, even now but badly concealed, of all the
sanctities that she had in reverence.
Therefore she drew near to her mother and the two of them watched
and waited . . .
His mother was knitting. She lifted to him her pink wrinkled face
and, her spectacles balanced on the end of her nose, smiled the
smile of the dearest old lady in the world.
"Well, dear, and have you had a pleasant day?"
"All right, mother, thank you. Funny thing; met a man in the street,
hadn't seen for five years. Saw him last in Rio--Funny thing. Well,
we lunched together. Not a bad fellow--Seen a thing or two, he has."
Mrs. Warlock counted her stitches. "Fourteen, fifteen, sixteen . . .
How nice for you, dear. What was his name?"
"Thompson .
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