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 to me alone—she had that manner—but she doesn't. Then of course there's another thing rather queer."

"What is it?"

"Well—it could hardly be a coincidence."

"What couldn't?"

Claire looked at her mother searchingly. "Have you noticed how much more constantly she's with him than she was at first?"

"Is she?"

"She's with him absolutely all the time he's out of his room. She used to leave him, for an hour or so, quite often; but now she never does. It's as if she didn't want to leave him alone—alone with anybody else. I haven't been alone with him since I don't know how long!"

"My dear child! Why should you be alone with him? It strikes me you say some pretty personal things to him under conditions that might almost be called semi-public! I don't know much more you could do if you were alone with him; and the poor man himself looks troubled enough when you do it, as it is!"

"Yes, but" Claire said dreamily. "Do you think perhaps she has a kind of sisterly jealousy of me?"