Whom they were written to, when they had been penned, he neither knew nor
cared to discover; it was enough for him that they had been written by
her, and that they were altogether shameful and sinful. With a deep and
sickened disgust, he set fire to the whole packet, and scattered the
blackened and smouldering ashes into the empty grate. They had cost a
human life, those reckless, sinful letters; but for them, Vera would not
have died.
The terrible tragedy came to an end at last. They buried her beneath the
coloured mosaic floor of the new chancel, which Sir John had built at her
desire; and Marion smothered herself and her children in crape, and
people shook their heads and sighed when they spoke of her; and Shadonake
was shut up, and the Millers all went to London; and then the world went
its way, and after a time it forgot her; and Vera Nevill's place knew her
no more.
* * * * *
After Christmas there was a wedding in Eaton Square; a wedding small and
not at all gay.
Pages:
571
572
573
574
575
576
577
578
579
580
581
582
583
584
585
586
587
588
589
590
591
592
593
594
595