Ireton, you are in league with him. We must wash out those stains up stairs, and burn the cloth. Girls who had envied her former position as John’s amour passed no opportunity to utter cryptic remarks as she sat in Study Hall, walked down hallways, or rinsed her hands in the bathroom. He picked up the broken fiddle and beckoned. She put down the sketch-books and apparatus she had brought with her, pulled out her stool, and sat down. Since then he has persistently annoyed me. She had, poor inexperienced fool, given herself away. I tore the marriage certificate from his pocket and burnt it. And turning again, as if the emotions she had churned up kept her on the move, she paced back to the mantel and there stopped, staring at her own reflection in the tarnished mirror.
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