“Thank God!” she said, speaking her words as though she were breathing a sigh of great relief.
And so she was; she was speaking of her husband.
CHAPTER VI
There came a dreadful misgiving to her. She clutched her father’s arm as they stood together on the road.
“You are sure?” she said in a low voice, with her eyes looking at him with something of fierceness in their expression. “There is no mistake—no possibility of a mistake? Remember what the man was—a trickster—unscrupulous—you are sure? Is that a letter—a paper?”
“A paper,” he said—“several papers. There can be no doubt about it. And don’t speak ill of him now, Priscilla. You will be sorry for it. He died the death of a man. However bad his life may have been, he made up for it in his death.”
“A hero?” she said, and she was smiling so that her father was angered.
“I would not have believed it of you; it is unnatural,” he said. “Have you no sense of what’s proper—what’s decent?”