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 had finally come back to them and for years and years steadfastly refused to receive them, what right had they to intrude now? They had been privileged to see her growing up because she was only a child and couldn't prevent it; but they hadn't been privileged to see her after she had grown up, and Paul begrudged the posthumous invasion upon her privacy. He had almost snarled when the villagers had walked past the ebony box and peered through the little window at Aunt Verona's wasted face.

Had Dr. Wilcove been gossiping? Did those farmer cousins from Upper Bridgetown know something of Aunt Verona's life abroad? Or was the minister guessing when he spoke glibly of "brilliant promise" and "voluntary retirement to a life of piety and seclusion" And why spoil it all by calling poor Aunt Verona "one of the 'Lord's handmaidens?" He pictured the twisted smile with which Aunt Verona would have received that description. He heard her saying, "Me, Verona Windell, a handmaiden of the Lord God! Well, well—poor God! You mustn't say that word, child—I can but you mustn't—promise!" Then she would have gone to the playroom and sat looking out of the window. Aunt Verona might conceivably be the handmaiden; but to think of her as one of the handmaidens, standing with a group of others, wearing the same robes, indistinguishable from them, her grey-black hair down her back—it was grotesque.

Not only did he scorn the minister, but he bore a grudge against the ecclesiastical machinery that had inculcated such untenable notions. Recalling the days when he had seen a tiny replica of hell in the red coals over which Aunt Verona had braised onions to cure his colds, he felt extravagant compassion for that child who had been so needlessly terrified, and extravagant anger against the Man of God who so obtusely lied—yes, lied, whether he meant to or not. Ass! And the service went on and on.