Skeaton was already beginning to forget the story of
the suicide. Maggie was marked for ever now as "queer and strange,"
but Paul was not blamed; he was rather, pitied and even liked the
more. But Grace could not forget. Maggie intended perhaps to murder
her in revenge for her uncle's death; well, then, she must be
murdered . . . She would not leave her brother. She could not
consider the future. She knew that she could not live in the same
house with Maggie for long, but she would not go and Maggie would
not go . . . What was to happen?
Poor Grace, the tortures that she suffered during those weeks will
not be understood by persons with self-confidence and a hearty
contempt for superstition.
She paid the penalty now for the ghosts of her childhood--and no one
could help her.
Maggie saw that Paul was, with every day, increasingly unhappy. He
had never been trained to conceal his feelings, and although he
tried now he succeeded very badly. He would come into her room in
the early morning hours and lie down beside her. He would put his
arms around her and kiss her, and, desperately, as though he were
doing it for a wager, make love to her.
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