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 less. "Do you know what you're saying? I've never had any one say such a thing to me before . . . me, his own mother! Why, do you know what we've been to each other . . . Philip and me?" She plunged into a long recital of their intimacy, of the beautiful relationship that had always existed between them, of the sacrifices she had made. It went on and on, and Mary, listening, thought, "That's how she talks to him. That's why he can't get free of her." Suddenly she hated Emma. And then she heard Emma saying, in a cold voice, "Of course, I suppose in one way you do know him better than I do—in one way."

"What are you trying to say?"

"You know what I mean. You ought to know you . . . you . . . who have stolen him away from me and from his own wife."

Mary's fingers dug suddenly into the horsehair of her chair. She felt a sudden primitive desire to fling herself upon Emma, to pull her hair, to choke her. The old tomboyish spirit, dead for so long, seemed suddenly to breathe and stir with life. She thought quickly, "I mustn't. I mustn't. It's what she'd like me to do—to put myself on a level with herself. And I mustn't, for Philip's sake. It's all bad enough as it is." She grew suddenly rigid with the effort of controlling herself. She managed to say in a quiet voice, "I think you're talking nonsense. I think you're a little crazy."

"Crazy, am I? That's a nice thing to say!"

"I have talked to Philip just once since he came home, and that was on the day I met you in the street. I didn't try to find him. He came to me."

"Do you expect me to believe that?" 