She reflected--without anger, as women do on
such matters--that if curiosity moved her, Mrs. Agar would not scruple to
open all these letters and read them. The packets had evidently not been
opened, and a momentary feeling of grateful recognition of Arthur's
gentlemanly honour passed through her mind. There was about the faded
papers that dim, mysterious odour which ever clings to packages that have
been packed in India.
"Yes," she said, "let us burn them."
Mrs. Agar seemed to hesitate for a moment, but it was only for effect.
She dreaded the packages, for one of them might contain the will which
haunted her.
And so these two women, so very different, from such very different
motives, carried the letters to the fire, and there they burnt them. In
the curling flames Dora saw her own handwriting. She could not understand
the suppressed excitement of Mrs. Agar's manner; she only knew that the
mistress of Stagholme seemed to be afraid of looking at the burning
papers.
When all was consumed both women heaved a sigh of relief.
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