.. but placidity
was the shield that covered her attack and, for a symbol, one might
take the large flat golden brooch that she wore on her bosom--flat,
expressionless and shining, with the sharpest pin behind it that ever
brooch possessed.
Peter, whose miseries had accumulated as the minutes passed, was ready to
seize upon anything that promised a reconciliation. He did not like Mrs.
Rossiter--he had never been able to get to close quarters with her, and he
was conscious that his roughness and occasional outbursts displeased her.
He felt, too, that the qualities that he had resented in Clare owed their
origin to her mother. That brooch of hers was responsible for a great deal.
Fixing his eyes upon it he said, "You've come about Clare?"
"Yes, Peter." Mrs. Rossiter settled herself more comfortably, spread her
skirts, folded her hands. "She's very unhappy."
The mild eyes baffled him.
"I'm terribly sorry. I will do anything I can, but I think--that I had
a right"--he faltered a little; it was so like talking to an empty
Dairy--"had a right to mind. Two old friends of mine--two of the best
friends that I have in the world were here yesterday and Clare--"
"I don't think," the soft voice broke in upon him whilst the eyes searched
his body up and down, "that, even now, Peter, you quite understand Clare--"
"No," he said eagerly, "I know.
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