She rose, giving her shoulders the quaint, sliding wriggle with which she was wont to slough off, symbolically, problems too troublesome for solution. "Oh, if those things are going to happen, they happen," she muttered. "That's the fate part of it. But I do suppose we can't go on forever. We'll crash, some way."
"Does anyone suspect? Dee?"
"I don't think so. She's got troubles enough of her own these days. If it's anyone, it's Con. She's been asking some snoopy kind of questions."
"What questions?"
"Oh, I don't know. I told her to go to the devil; that I was over twelve, and she told me I'd better remember particularly that I was."
"I don't like that," said he.
"Oh, well; I don't like it much, myself. But what can she do?"
"Talk."
"Not outside the family. Con isn't that kind. She might tell Fred."