Only death could disturb her habit of order.
Her fingers were so cold they felt fairly numb as she unfastened
her dress; she staggered when she slipped it over her head. She
went to the closet to hang it up and recoiled. A strong smell of
lovage came in her nostrils; a purple gown near the door swung
softly against her face as if impelled by some wind from within.
All the pegs were filled with garments not her own, mostly of
somber black, but there were some strange-patterned silk things and
satins.
Suddenly Louisa Stark recovered her nerve. This, she told herself,
was something distinctly tangible. Somebody had been taking
liberties with her wardrobe. Somebody had been hanging some one
else's clothes in her closet. She hastily slipped on her dress
again and marched straight down to the parlour. The people were
seated there; the widow and the minister were playing backgammon.
The librarian was watching them. Miss Amanda Gill was mending
beside the large lamp on the centre table. They all looked up with
amazement as Louisa Stark entered. There was something strange in
her expression. She noticed none of them except Amanda.
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