“But surely you have been ill?” I said.
She tapped her foot. It was the first symptom of nervous impatience that I had observed in her.
“Not in body,” she replied curtly. “Tell me all about the funeral.”
And I gave her an account of the impressive incidents of the interment — the stately procession, the grandiose ritual, the symbols of public grief. She displayed a strange, morbid curiosity as to it all.
And then suddenly she rose up from her chair, and I rose also, and she demanded, as it were pushed by some secret force to the limit of her endurance:
“You loved him, didn’t you, Mr. Foster?”