Mrs. Allen sat silent for a moment pursing her lips.
Bristow let her reflect.
"I don't think," she said at last, "Mrs. Withers ever was in fear of anybody or any thing. She wasn't that kind."
"Did she ever tell you anything to make you think that she wasn't happy?"
"I was trying to recall just what it was. Once, I remember, when she was sitting out on the sleeping porch—she sometimes came out there to talk to my husband, who is always in bed—we had been discussing the care with which every woman had to live her life.
"'Women are like politicians,' Mr. Allen said. 'They can't afford to have a dark spot in their past. If they do, somebody will drag it out.'
"At that Mrs. Withers cried out:
"'Oh! how awfully true that is! And how unfair! It never seems to matter with men, but with women it means heaven, or the other thing. I wish I knew——' She broke off with a gasp, and I saw her lip tremble.
"It was funny, but at the time I thought she was referring to her sister, not to herself."
"What made you think that?"