He had been observing
her. I felt certain also that he had not been asking any questions of
Mrs. Fyne.
"I wouldn't look at him," said Flora de Barral. "I had done with looking
at people. He said to me: 'My sister does not put herself out much for
us. We had better keep each other company. I have read every book there
is in that cottage.' I walked on. He did not leave me. I thought he
ought to. But he didn't. He didn't seem to notice that I would not talk
to him."
She was now perfectly still. The wretched little parasol hung down
against her dress from her joined hands. I was rigid with attention. It
isn't every day that one culls such a volunteered tale on a girl's lips.
The ugly street-noises swelling up for a moment covered the next few
words she said. It was vexing. The next word I heard was "worried."
"It worried you to have him there, walking by your side."
"Yes. Just that," she went on with downcast eyes. There was something
prettily comical in her attitude and her tone, while I pictured to myself
a poor white-faced girl walking to her death with an unconscious man
striding by her side.
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