She looked at the blood--she didn't know how it happened. And he--
well, _you_ ought to know--was as bad, in his way. 'Pon my soul, Sancie,
Vesuvius might just as well have married Etna--every bit. But there!
What's the good of talking! Everybody knew how it would be." Words failing
him, he stared about him.
"But still--oh, damn it all! To hear of your wife's death--casually--on a
platform--from a chap you happen to know--happen to have met somewhere--
oh, well, I call it casual. That's the word, I believe--casual. Well, it
_is_ pretty casual--what? Now, just tell me what you think--between
friends, of course."
She stopped him: she was short in the breath. "I think not. If you don't
mind."
He became as serious, immediately, as he was capable of being. "I'll do as
you like, my dear--but you'll let me say this, that if I could see you
with all your belongings about you again, I should sing a hymn. That's
all, Sancie; but it means a lot. When you went out of Great Cumberland
Place, it became, somehow, another kind of place. I hardly ever go there
now, you know. And now they're all married but you, and--I say, you heard
that Vicky had a son and heir? Did you hear that?"
She had averted her face, but she listened intensely, nodding her head.
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