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Updated: June 11, 2025
Hollister had watched him swinging his ax on the woodpile, going off on those long tramps in the bottom land. He might be within gunshot of the house at this moment. Hollister found himself pitying this man. He found himself wondering if it had always been that way with Myra, if she were the helpless victim of her own senses. There were women like that. Plenty of them. Men too.
Hollister continued to muse on this after Lawanne went away. He thought Lawanne's summing up a trifle severe. Nevertheless it was a pretty clear statement of fact. Bland certainly seemed above working either for money or to secure a reasonable degree of comfort for himself and his wife.
But how careless of me. Let me get you a cup of tea," he said to Mrs. Hollister, placing a table before her and a stool under her feet. He soon returned, bringing the tray and a plate of delicious jumbles. "You see," he continued, "Aunt Susan will not keep two girls, so I have to be waitress now and then.
And Myra did not seem to care what Hollister saw. She would look frankly at him with a question in her eyes. What that question might be, Hollister refused even to consider. She never again made any remark to Doris about her first husband, about the similarity of name.
But she was here all afternoon, and we didn't spend five hours talking about the weather." "What did you talk about then?" Hollister asked curiously. "Men and women and money mostly," Doris replied. "If one may judge a woman by the impressionistic method, I should say that Mrs. Bland would be very attractive to men." It was on the tip of Hollister's tongue to say, "She is."
Blister brought him back to the question of the moment. "An' you were t-takin' her ?" "To Brown's Park." "Forcin' her to go. Was that it?" Hollister broke in. "No, sir. She went of her own accord." "Asked you to take her there, mebbe?" "None o' yore damn business." "How old is she, Mr. Houck?" Larson questioned. "I dunno." "I do. Sixteen coming Christmas," said Dud. "Dillon told me."
He was a tall, ruddy-faced man, a big man and handsome. Hollister had looked at him often enough, reckoning him to be an Englishman, the man Myra married in London, the man for whom she had conceived such a passion that she had torn Hollister's heart by the brutal directness of her written avowal.
From a blacksmith shop a man stepped. "Say, fellow, can I see you a minute?" he asked. It was Dud Hollister. He drew Bob back into the smithy. "Big guy in town lookin' for you. He's tankin' up. You heeled?" Bob felt as though his heart had been drenched with ice water. Houck was here then. Already. "No, I I don't carry a gun," he replied, weakly. "Here's mine.
Except the faint slapping of little waves against the ice-encrusted, rocky shore, and the distant, harsh voices of some wheeling gulls, there was no sound or echo of a sound, as he stood listening. Yet Hollister was not oppressed by this chill solitude. In that setting, silence was appropriate. It was merely unexpected.
Lydia stepped back into the darkness of the hall. When she came out later, a misty figure in white, Paul rose, saying, "Well, Walter, I'll leave you to Mrs. Hollister now. I've got some work to do before I get to bed." Lydia sat silent, looking at the boy's face, clear and untarnished in the moonlight. He was looking dreamily away at the lawn, dappled with the shadow of the slender young trees.
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