The paper dropped from her hand.
Marigold picked it up.
The diversion of the telegraph boy had checked Mrs. Tufton's
eloquence and compelled the idle interest of the neighbours. I
cried out from the car:
"What's the matter?"
But I don't think Betty heard me. She recovered herself, took the
telegram from Marigold, and showed it to the woman.
"Read it," said Betty, in a strange, hard voice. "This is to tell
me that my husband was killed yesterday in France. Go on your
knees and thank God that you have a brave husband still alive and
pray that you may be worthy of him."
She went into the house and in a moment reappeared like a ghost of
steel, carrying the disputed canvas kit-bag over her shoulder. The
woman stared open-mouthed and said nothing. Marigold came forward
to relieve Betty of her burden, but she waved him imperiously
away, passed him and, opening the car-door, threw the bag at my
feet. Not one of the rough crowd moved a foot or uttered a sound,
save a baby in arms two doors off, who cut the silence with a
sickly wail and was immediately hushed by its mother. Betty turned
to the attendant Marigold.
"You can drive me home."
She sat by my side.
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