For Mrs. Oke, who seemed the most
self-absorbed of creatures in all other matters, and utterly incapable of
understanding or sympathising with the feelings of other persons, entered
completely and passionately into the feelings of this woman, this Alice,
who, at some moments, seemed to be not another woman, but herself.
"But how could she do it--how could she kill the man she cared for?" I once
asked her.
"Because she loved him more than the whole world!" she exclaimed, and
rising suddenly from her chair, walked towards the window, covering her
face with her hands.
I could see, from the movement of her neck, that she was sobbing. She did
not turn round, but motioned me to go away.
"Don't let us talk any more about it," she said. "I am ill to-day, and
silly."
I closed the door gently behind me. What mystery was there in this woman's
life? This listlessness, this strange self-engrossment and stranger mania
about people long dead, this indifference and desire to annoy towards her
husband--did it all mean that Alice Oke had loved or still loved some one
who was not the master of Okehurst? And his melancholy, his preoccupation,
the something about him that told of a broken youth--did it mean that he
knew it?
6
The following days Mrs.
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