A sensitive novel of a wife driven to despair by the pressures of suburbia.
d her he was somehow vaguely aware of darkness, and weeping, and the subdued rustling of gowns. Po' Nancy Barrett was here--he knew that? Well, didn't he know that the dea' old Colonel had passed away suddenly--Miss Augusta's tears flowed afresh. Nancy had come in unexpectedly to lunch, and the telegram from her aunt had come while she was there. "Tell Nancy Brother Edward passed on at five o'clock. Come home at once."
Bert listened dazedly, in the shabby old parlour with the scrolled flowery carpet, and the statues, and the square piano. He comforted Miss Augusta, he even put one arm about her. Was there something he could do?--he asked the forlorn, empty question merely as a matter of course.
"I don't suppose yo' could send some telegrams..." Miss Augusta said, blowing her nose damply. "Po' child, she hasn't got a brother, nor anyone to depend on now in the hour of her bitteh need!"
Bert's heart leaped.
"Just tell me!" he begged. "And what about trains, and arrangements? Will she go down? And cl
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