He was Jem Agar, and the family name seemed somehow to belong
exclusively to his father still, although that thorough old sportsman had
lain for three years and more beneath the quiet turf of the little
churchyard within his own park gates.
As he pulled up at the door this was thrown open, and within its frame of
light he saw the gracious form of his stepmother waiting to welcome him.
Behind her, in the shadow, and amidst the decoration of staghorns,
ancient pike and hanger, loomed a tall dark figure startlingly in keeping
with the semi-monastic architecture of the house. This was Sister
Cecilia. She was always thus--behind Mrs. Agar, with clasped hands and a
vaguely approving smile, as if Mrs. Agar conferred a benefit upon
suffering humanity by the mere act of existing.
A slightly bored expression came into Jem's patient eyes. It was not that
he had very much in common with his stepmother, although he had an honest
affection for her; but he instinctively disliked Sister Cecilia and all
her works.
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