"Nothing, my dear, that you would understand."
He was at a loss to account for the asperity of the little lady's tone; but he remembered that Julia had never been a favorite with her aunt.
"I'm convinced," said Mrs. Dysart, "that woman died for want of something. Something that she'd got used to till it was absolutely necessary to her. Something, whatever it was, that had completely satisfied her. When she found herself without it, that, I imagine, constituted the shock. And she wasn't strong enough to stand it, that was all."
Mrs. Dysart spoke to her niece, but he felt that there was something in her, fiery and indignant, that hurled itself across Julia at him.
He changed the subject.
"She—she left nothing?"
"Not a note, not a line."
"Ah, well, what we have is beautiful enough for anybody."
"I wonder if you have any idea what you might have had? If you even knew what it was you had?"
"I never presumed," he said, "to understand her. I've hardly ever known any woman properly but one."