"I don't quite see what you mean," she said, slowly.
"You couldn't see," Hilda told her, "and you will never see. Women
like you don't."
"We didn't get on very well together," Jean said, almost timidly, "but
that was because we were different."
"It wasn't because we were different that we didn't get on," Hilda
said. "It was because you were afraid of me. You knew your father
liked me."
With her usual frankness she spoke the truth as she saw it.
"I was not afraid," Jean faltered.
"You were. But we needn't talk about that. I am going to France."
"When?"
"As soon as I can get there. That's why I came here. To take away
some things I wanted."
"Oh--"
"And one of the things I wanted was the picture of your father which
hung in your room. I have taken that. You can get more of them. I
can't. So I have taken it."
They faced each other, this shining child and this dark woman.
"But--but it is mine--Hilda."
"It is mine now, and if I were you, I shouldn't make a fuss about it."
"Hilda, how dare you!" Jean began in the old indignant way, and
stopped. There was something so sinister about it all.
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