But he had
come through safe and sound, and more--more _hateful_ than ever.
One fortune-teller, a woman, small, faded, commonplace-looking, yet with
something sinister about her that impressed her patrons uncomfortably,
had told Enid Crofton, with a curious smile, that she would have yet
another husband, making the third. This had startled her very much, for
the woman, who did not even know her name, could only have guessed that
she had been married twice. Enid Crofton was not given to making
unnecessary confidences. With the exception of her sister-in-law, none of
the people who now knew her were aware that Colonel Crofton had been her
second husband.
She lay down again, and in the now dying firelight, fixed her eyes on the
chintz square of the window curtain nearest to her. She shut her eyes,
but, as always happens, there remained a square luminous patch on their
retinas. And then, all at once, it was as if she saw, depicted on the
white, faintly illuminated space, a scene which might have figured in one
of those cinema-plays to which she and her house-mate, during those happy
days when she had lived in London, used so often to go with one or other
of their temporary admirers.
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