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Updated: May 15, 2025
Her social value, obscured by the terrible two years in Garthdale, had come to her as a discovery and an acquisition. For all her complacency, she could not regard it as a secure thing. She was sensitive to every breath that threatened it; she was unable to forget that, if she was Steven Rowcliffe's wife, she was Alice Greatorex's sister. Even as Mary Cartaret she had been sensitive to Alice.
To Gwenda it was as if her heart kept her hands off Rowcliffe's children, as if her flesh shrank from their flesh while her lips brushed theirs in tenderness and repulsion. But seeing them was always worse in anticipation than reality. For there was no trace of Rowcliffe in his children. The little red-haired, white-faced things were all Cartaret.
"She's got something to do with young Rowcliffe's not turning up, I think. I met the two of them half way between Upthorne and Bar Hill at half past four." He took out his watch. "And it's ten past six now." He sat down, turning his chair so as not to see her face. He did not, at the moment, care to look at her. "You might go and ask Mrs. Gale to send me in a cup of tea." Alice went out.
And then, as the carriage passed, Rowcliffe's youngest cousin did an odd thing. She tossed the slipper over the bridge into the beck. Harker had not time to comment on her action. They were coming for him from the house. Rowcliffe's youngest sister-in-law had fainted away on the top landing. Everybody remembered then that it was she who had been in love with him. Alice had sent for Gwenda.
And, as sometimes happens to people who are going to die and know it, there came to her a peculiar vivid and poignant sense of her surroundings. Of Rowcliffe's room and the things in it, the chair he had sat in, the pipe he had laid aside, the book he had been reading and that he had flung away.
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