There was no answer.
Frances stood up, to listen. "Will she not speak?" she
cried. "Make her speak!"
But in reality she said nothing. Even her breath had
stopped to listen.
There was no answer.
Frances was awake now, for the rest of her life. She
knew what she had done.
"Why, George," she said, "she cannot speak. She is dead.
I did it."
She stood in the room a minute, looking from side to
side, and then went with measured steps out of it, down
the corridor and into the street.
"I did it," she said to herself again and again, as she
walked slowly on.
The old cathedral is opposite to the inn. Her eyes, as
she passed, rested on the gargoyles, and she thought how
fine they were. One was a ridiculous head with lolling
tongue.
A priest's voice inside was chanting mass. A dozen
Breton women in their huge white winged caps and wooden
shoes hurried up to the door, through the gray fog. They
met Mrs. Waldeaux and saw her face. They huddled to
one side, crossing themselves, and when she passed, stood
still, forgetting the mass and looking, frightened, up
the steep street behind her to find what horror had
pursued her.
"They know what I have done," she said aloud.
Once when she was a child she had accidentally seen a
bloated wretch, a murderer, on his way to the gallows.
"I am he," she thought. "I--_I_, Frances."
Then the gargoyle came into her mind again. What a
capital headpiece it would make for "Quigg's" next
column! It was time this week's jokes were sent.
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