“My poor, poor wife!”
CHAPTER LXVI.
A DOMESTIC STORM.
“Mother,” said Mrs. Townsend Oakley, lifting her eyes gently from the needle-work with which she was employed, “why was it that you took so strong a dislike to the De Markes?”
Mrs. Judson lifted her eyes to the face of her daughter, and kept them upon it so long that a burning crimson spread over the fair cheeks and forehead.
“Why did I dislike the family, daughter? Because the woman who called herself the head was in every respect unworthy.”
“But the son, mother, surely he was a gentleman.”
“He was a villain?” answered Mrs. Judson, with a degree of sternness that made her daughter start, and brought a deluge of fiery blood to her face.
“How? Why, mother, I never heard a word against him in my life before!”
“Probably not; but had you searched deep enough, acts, rather than opinions, would have settled the truth of what I say. Your husband’s sister died in a charity hospital. He it was who sent her there.”
“Mother, mother!”