B. Stanley came home at a quarter to six—an earlier train by fifteen minutes than he affected—his sister met him in the hall with a hushed expression. He described her privately to himself as a splendid girl. The flowers upon the mantel-shelf were withered and drooping—she had gathered them. Spiders came out of their hiding places to commune in windows, industriously spinning their own designs over the stained glass. Why don’t you make sure before you rush out like that upon a stranger?” “You were with my wife,” Hill repeated sullenly.
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